


Catching the ghost

by GalaRey



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Multi, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, indecent proposal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-13 04:35:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 90,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5694967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaRey/pseuds/GalaRey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a hard time letting go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A slow burn story which will eventually get smutty. Really, not kidding. Quite a lot of smut, with just a thread of plot linking it together.  
> It is sheriarty focused, but there are scenes of:
> 
> Irene/Sherlock/Jim Chapters 24-27  
> Moran/Sherlock/Jim Chapters 29-33  
> 

The case was solved, Jim Moriarty’s ghost had finally been laid to rest. The little cult of copycats who had used the criminal’s image for their own gains were scattered, on the run. Running scared. Served them right. Pathetic boring people using Moriarty’s face to further their own tedious ambitions. As if they had a right to him. Sherlock had no interest in hunting them down further. Mycroft’s people could handle the clean up. The only interesting element had been the discovery of Moriarty’s right hand man, Moran, who had set loose the little cult of followers in order to mask his own crimes. Interesting, but not as interesting as the mastermind himself. 

Once Moran was in MI6 custody, the rest was boring. A gaggle of unoriginal people, emulating a man they could never hope to match. Sherlock was tired of it. Disgusted. If he saw one more person dressed up like Jim, trying to speak as they would imagine he had spoken, faking an irish accent of all things, Sherlock was certain he’d murder someone again and wind up right back on a plane for exile.

“Sherlock, she likes you,” Mary said, her hand touching his forearm.  
 Sherlock blinked into Mary’s smiling face then looked down at the baby in his arms. John’s baby. She had his eyes. “She’s three days old, hardly qualified to be a judge of character.”

Mrs. Hudson cooed at the infant, hovering at Sherlock’s arm. When had she come in? “Oh Sherlock,” she said, tickling the smiling baby’s chin. “Children have an instinct for these things.”

 “I’m sure.” He handed the baby over to the woman, uncrossing his long legs to pace to the fireplace. 

Mrs. Hudson cradled the cooing infant and smiled knowingly at Sherlock. “Someday you’ll have one of your own. You’ll see.”

 Sherlock took a sharp breath to retort when John emerged from the kitchen with a glass of wine and stopped him with a look. The detective released the breath and grimaced tightly. 

John nodded briefly, then resumed his entrance into the room, handing Mary the glass of wine. She took a sip and melted against John’s armchair. “Oh. That’s lovely,” she sighed. 

“You should avoid breastfeeding for three or four hours after drinking that Mary,” Sherlock said, running a finger over his mantle place with a frown. Mrs. Hudson has been dusting again. 

“Sherlock,” John said, shaking his head, but smiling. Smiling John was good. 

“For a woman of your weight it will take that long to -“

 “I know Sherlock,” Mary said, taking another sip. She smiled at him again kindly. “I promise I’ll be careful with her.”

Sherlock glanced at the baby then back at Mary, one of the most deadly women he knew. He met John’s curious gaze then looked away. An adrenaline junky and an assassin, careful wasn’t the word that came to mind, but he supposed he wasn’t really one to judge. 

 Footsteps up the stairway. Two sets. A hard tread followed by a softer one. He knew before he saw them emerge. Lestrade coming straight from work, Molly behind him holding a present wrapped with paper featuring an appalling cartoon rendition of the tortoise and the hare. The stories we tell children. He straightened, gaze wandering toward a worn copy of fairytales on his bookshelf sitting next to that horrid hat. The stories we tell. 

He jumped when he felt someone touch his back. He blinked rapidly as he focused on Molly. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I asked how it felt to be a godfather,” Molly said. She smiled at him too. Why was everyone smiling so much today? 

The baby hiccuped and Mrs. Hudson tittered with joy. 

Oh right. That.

“Why are people so determined to fixate on infants. They can’t do anything interesting yet. Barely sentient,” he grumbled. 

Molly glanced at the baby and shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “They can’t do anything bad yet either. They have the potential to be anything. A clean slate.”

“Hardly,” Sherlock said. “We each come preloaded with genetic information which -“ 

“Sherlock!” Lestrade slapped Sherlock on the back. “I guess you’ll be adding babysitting to your resume soon.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, eyeing the glass of scotch Lestrade had already helped himself to. “Rest assured I’ll ensure her mental development will begin immediately. I got to John too late, but he’s shown remarkable progress despite his late start in life.”

“I’m sorry, my what,” John said from his perch beside Mary, which only made her laugh.

A visit which had the original intention of introducing the infant to Mrs. Hudson spiraled quickly into an impromptu baby shower at Baker Street. The gathering had lasted four and a half hours. Mrs. Hudson had brought up snacks, John had made tea, and the evening was spent passing the baby around, marveling at every burp, coo, and scream made by the newborn. Sherlock grumbled, he fussed and never admitted that he enjoyed the company of his friends. The family he had created for himself. Now complete with a baby. 

But as it always did, the members of his family went home, exchanging pleasantries, making plans to meet for coffee. Lestrade handed John a boring case to review which Sherlock refused to look at yet. Footsteps down the stairs. The front door closing. Voices still chattering below on the street before his family parted ways for the evening. Then silence, save for the tinkering china Mrs. Hudson was piling up. 

“That was lovely wasn’t it,” she said. “I wonder what they’ll name her.”

Sherlock closed the curtains as the tail lights of the Watson’s car disappeared down the street. “You’ve been dusting,” he said, turning on his heels and picking up his violin.

“You asked me to,” she said.

“When?”

“You were in one of your moods, all in your head and you said that dust is made up of human skin.” She put the tray down. “I didn’t know that. So unsanitary.”

“It’s fine. Leave the dust. I assure you that you will not contract a disease from dust.”

“But it’s a little creepy when you think about it,” she continued, picking up her tray. “It’s like a little bit of everyone whose ever been in here is still lurking about.”

“Just leave it next time,” Sherlock snapped.

“Someone’s in a mood,” she tsked. “I’m going to give your mother a call.” Mrs. Hudson’s tray clinked as she made her way down the stairs. 

And then he was completely alone. It was just as well. Moriarty’s little fan club had been insulting to the criminal’s memory, but had given him a new lease on life within polite society. Time to make new memories. New regrets. 

He crossed the room and flopped onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. The silence was deafening. He needed a cigarette. Or something stronger. 

He slipped into his mind. Not too deep, just enough. Calling up only the surface image of a memory. Petite, well dressed, dark hair and darker eyes, looking at him with mischief and knowing, knowing Sherlock without ever reaching out to touch. The phantom opened his mouth, to threaten, to taunt, to tease. Sherlock sat bolt upright. No. Better to not let him speak. Dead and gone, never to speak again, never to entice. He was alone now. The silence echoed in the room confirming it. As he always did when it came to Him, Sherlock had missed something and the moment was gone. Nothing could come of taunting himself with a memory. 

Cigarettes, he settled on at last. He jumped to his feet and made his way out into the night. He took the long way around to the corner store, purchasing his pack quickly, then taking his time walking the streets back, chain smoking as he wandered, observing the crowd. Desperate to distract himself.

You were the best distraction.

Stop it. Sherlock stopped, staring at the burning ember. He lingered, fixed to that spot on the street. "And now I don't even have you," he said to the shadows. A decision to be made then.

Miss me? 

He growled, shaking his head and tossing the cigarette to the gutter. Definitely something stronger tonight.  
His feet carried him as they sometimes did toward a familiar haunt. Dark empty streets, with dark empty people, but none quite dark enough. He pulled up his coat collar and made his way in the shadows toward the men loitering there.  
 His phone binged. He sighed, pulling it from his pocket and glancing at the screen. Blocked. Sherlock frowned at the simple text. 

Your client is waiting.

He glanced at the men ahead of him, who had taken notice of his presence, then back at his phone. Blocked. 

He hesitated only a moment, then turned around, heading back into the glow of the streetlight where he flagged down a cab and returned to Baker Street. John would be proud. Well, sort of.

Entering the flat he noticed Mrs. Hudson was already asleep. Had been for at least an hour. No one had been waiting on the front steps. He climbed the stairs cautiously, his heart beginning to pound in his chest. That was stupid. Why was he nervous. A blocked number could be anyone. Though few of his clients would go to the trouble. Irene? 

He felt a surge of hope. That would be … not boring. She had known him. He could talk to her about it. She would likely understand. Help him understand. 

He should have read the signs, should not have been nearly as surprised as he was when opening the door. Emotion had made him sloppy, assumptions only seeing, but not observing. 

There, in the client seat, back to the door, a petite man with dark hair wearing a fine suit. Sherlock could swear his heart stopped beating a moment. The man in his study lifted his head, aware of Sherlock’s presence, but not turning to face him. 

No of course it wasn’t him. This one at least had Jim’s build, but was obviously a copycat all the same. Another idiot trying to wear Jim’s ghost. Anger exploded in Sherlock’s chest. 

“If you’re here to make some obnoxious declaration of villainous intent, then I must warn you my patience has run very thin with your lot,” the detective hissed. 

“Don’t be rude Sherlock. I’m here as a client,” his guest’s soft voice floated, idle and bored, through a light Dublin accent, as he casually looked back over his shoulder. Large dark eyes, as lonely, bored, and sharp as he remembered them, met Sherlock’s gaze, burning through his heart. 

“Jim,” Sherlock whispered.

 The criminal smiled. “Hi.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Don’t worry. I’m a proper client this time. Prepared to pay you. All on the up and up,” Jim said, his smile stretching over his teeth in that cheshire cat grin Sherlock hadn’t realized just how much he had missed. 

The detective composed himself quickly, not completely successful in pulling his game face back on. He clasped his hands behind his back and circled the seated criminal, examining him from all angles. Unblemished, flawless, back of the head fully intact. If anything Moriarty looked more rested and healthier than he had that morning on the roof. “You look well,” Sherlock mused.

Jim wrinkled his nose. “Oh you’re not going to do something boring like ask me how I’m still alive are you?”

Sherlock seated himself carefully, steepling his fingers under his chin. “Of course not,” he said, hoping he sounded as casual about the matter as projected.

Jim exhaled in relief. “Good.” His voice went into a high falsetto. “You’re not dead. How? Why? I’m so confused. Explain it all to me.” The criminal’s expression collapsed into a dead stare, “Ugh. People are tedious.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said carefully. “What do you want?”

“I told you, I’m a client,” Jim said, crossing one leg over the other and patting the arms of the hard wooden chair. “See, I’m in the chair and everything.” 

Jim was thinner, the kind of thin which came from a healthier lifestyle rather than deprivation. He’d always been attractive, but now he’d aged from a youthful charm into a refined kind of beauty.

Sherlock blinked, aware that he was staring, aware that Jim had caught him staring and the nearly imperceptible quirk at the corner of his mouth showing how much that pleased him. The detective cleared his throat. “Surely anything you would hire me for, you could simply do yourself.”

“Ah, well that rather depends on how willing I am to expose myself.”

“You want to stay dead then.”

“I admit I’m enjoying my retirement,” Jim hummed. “And really the whole criminal empire thing gets a bit dull. You think your clients have boring requests, you should try my line of work.”

 Interesting. Sherlock dropped his hands into his lap, leaning forward. “Are you saying you’re reformed then?”

Jim snickered. “Reformed implies remorse for wrong-doing Sherlock. You know better than that.”

“But you’ve stopped? Stopped being Moriarty.”

Jim frowned. A fleeting sadness darted across his face, a look of disappointment. Sherlock hated disappointing the man. “I’ll always be what I am Sherlock. I’m surprised you’d expect anything different.”

Sherlock straightened. “Just getting a measure of how much collateral damage I might have to contend with. If I took your case that is.”

Jim leaned forward. “Yes, that. I need to break a man out of MI6 custody.”

Sherlock blinked. “Moran.”

Jim grinned, eyes sparkling. “Good boy.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Between my brother and I, we’ve killed or locked away most of your network. You haven’t batted an eye. What’s this one to you?”

Jim’s grin never wavered. Unmoved. “That’s irrelevant for your purposes. Are you willing to take the job?”  

“There’s nothing to solve,” Sherlock grumbled, waving a hand dismissively.

“Except how to thwart your brother’s security without him realizing that you are involved or that I’m still alive,” Jim said, resting his cheek against his fist. 

“It’s illegal.”

“Says the man who shot a newspaper mogul in the head for threatening to say mean things about his friend’s wife,” Jim laughed. At Sherlock’s alarmed expression, Jim raised a hand. “I’m not criticizing my dear.” He gave him an impish wink. “Nice shot by the way.”

Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms. “You could do this yourself. Hire a team under another name, remain anonymous. Why do you need me?”

“The new game is about staying dead Sherlock. A layman will botch this up. I do have a grudging respect for your brother. And even with another voice, the iceman will recognize the pattern in my brush strokes. But if you do it, then he’ll have nothing to go on. He’s never seen you truly do the devil’s work.”

“Boring,” Sherlock said. 

“I promise, it’s more fun that you’re giving it credit for.” Jim straightened. “Down to business then. Money’s no object. You can name your price. Send that pretty goddaughter of yours to any university she likes.”

“I’m not interested in money,” Sherlock growled. 

“Then work in trade,” Jim said. “One favor for another. Think of the fun you could have making me save someone.” The criminal paused, leaning forward, smirking. “Or you could save it as a future IOU.”

Sherlock glared. Jim continued unphased. “Would have come in handy with Magnussen. Saved you getting your hands dirty.”

“I’ll pass.”

Jim frowned, rising to his feet. “How disappointing.” He straightened his suit, dusting the sleeves. “Well. Nice catching up.”

Sherlock licked his lips. “Wait. I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it.”

Jim froze, tilting his head curiously. “Oh?”

“I just don’t want money or trade,” he continued, heat rising up his collar. Was he blushing, could Jim tell he was blushing? 

The criminal’s eyes narrowed, not bothering to hide the fact that he was reading Sherlock. It sent a thrill up the detective’s spine to feel someone other than Mycroft deduce him. 

“Are you going to tell me what you want then,” Jim drawled. He didn’t know then. Not surprising, Sherlock hardly knew what he wanted himself. 

Sherlock stood, walking toward Jim, stopping inches from him. Close. As they had been on the roof. So close he could feel Jim’s breath as he looked up at him unwavering. As he had in his simulation. On his knees… “You,” Sherlock whispered.

 The look of surprise on Jim’s face was one to cherish, just as he had predicted years ago. The way Jim took three steps back, laughing and shaking his head was a little less so. “Me?” Disbelief, uncertainty, then realization passed over Jim’s countenance in quick succession. No need to explain, no question of mistake, Jim could read Sherlock as easily as ever, even when what he said defied the very nature of the unspoken boundaries of their acquaintance. Sherlock let Jim slip away, put distance between them. Finally the criminal’s head snapped up, dark eyes bottomless, hard, full of fury. “You wouldn’t know what to do with me if you had me virgin,” Moriarty hissed.

Sherlock frowned. This wasn’t how Jim acted in his mind palace. He flirted with him, made blatant advances, unabashed innuendo. The simulation was based on all of the information he had on Jim. It couldn’t be wrong. No, it could. Moriarty’s snicker cut through his thoughts.  
 “If you’re interested in the job, I suggest taking the favor Sherlock. You’ll get more out of it.”

“That … that’s not what I meant,” Sherlock said, truly blushing now. He took a few steps toward Jim, at a loss for how to begin to explain.

Jim circled away, keeping distance between them. “Good. It’s been a long time since I was anyone’s rent boy Sherlock. I wasn’t a nice one. Let’s be clear when we name our price, shall we?”

Information. New information about Jim Moriarty. It sent a shiver of pleasure through Sherlock’s body. And yes, the image of a younger Jim, mind untouchable but body available for sale to any half wit with the cash did send conflicting surges of anger and lust through him, but that wasn’t the true pleasure. Knowing something about Jim’s life. Not Moriarty, not one of his flawlessly executed personas. Knowing him. That’s what he wanted. 

“Something a bit more committed,” Sherlock began carefully. He stopped moving. They were circling each other. It was escalating things, putting him in danger of losing Jim again. He had to be careful.

Jim stopped pacing too. He wrinkled his nose. “Oh you’re not proposing to me now are you?” He was half-joking, Sherlock could hear it in his voice, but while tinged with a bite, at least Jim no longer sounded … venomous. 

“One year,” Sherlock said. “My price is one year with you.”

 Jim eyed Sherlock, stepping back a pace. “One year as your arch-enemy? One year of the game.” He knew, they both knew, Jim was stalling. Sherlock couldn’t for the life of him tell why. Jim had always flirted with him so easily. At least in the beginning. Of course any time Sherlock had moved toward the criminal, he had always darted from his reach. Gone so far as to seemingly shoot himself in the head to avoid anything more than a handshake. Sherlock licked his lips. Carefully then. 

“Not my enemy Jim. You know what I want.”

Jim snorted. “You don’t know what you want Sherlock,” he growled. His voice tipped up, playful and familiar, “You think you do, but you don’t.”

Sherlock took careful steps toward Jim again. It was a strange sort of dance, one he was unaccustomed to. He watched Jim watch his approach warily. At the slightest twitch from the criminal, Sherlock stopped his approach. “One year, as my lover Jim. Exclusively.”

Jim froze Sherlock in place with his glare. “I already have a lover.”

Not completely unexpected, but it shot Sherlock through the heart all the same. “Break it off with them.”

Jim grinned devilishly. “Just like that? What if I’m in lo~ve?”

“You’re not.” Sherlock was being cold, selfish. He knew it, but couldn’t help himself. He was glad John wasn’t here to witness it, Moriarty or no, Sherlock knew he’d never hear the end of it. 

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. Break it off immediately.”

Jim looked up the ceiling, head swiveling on his neck as his eyes slipped shut. “That complicates the whole arrangement I’m afraid.”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed. “How so?”

“Well getting rid of my lover rather defeats the purpose of you breaking him out of your brother’s custody.”

Sherlock took a sharp breath. He should have seen that coming. Crack in the lens indeed. “Moran.”

Jim seemed to delight in Sherlock’s recoil. “Yes,” he hissed low, crooked smile creeping across his face. 

Sherlock walked away, resuming his seat. Interesting, Jim followed him, confident again. Doesn’t like being on the defensive then. Oh. Jim likes to lead the dance perhaps? That seemed right. Sort of right. He couldn’t put his finger on it.

“Don’t look so devastated honey,” Jim purred, brushing his fingertips across the back of Sherlock’s chair as he circled him. “It’s fine. I’m flattered.” Sherlock watched Jim. He was close again. Within reach. “But really, you’ll enjoy having a criminal mastermind on speed dial for a favor more than you’d ever-eep“ Sherlock snatched Jim’s arm and yanked the criminal down onto his lap, wrapping an arm around his waist and holding him there. Small. Jim was so small and warm and alive. 

A sharp pang shot through Sherlock’s scalp as his head was yanked back by his hair, a hand clamped around his throat. “What do you think you’re doing Holmes,” Jim growled with soft menace.

Sherlock smiled, choking the word out against the pressure against his throat. “Experimenting.”

“Don’t,” Jim grumbled, shoving Sherlock back by the throat and sliding off of his lap. 

Sherlock coughed, rubbing his head and looking up to watch the criminal pace out of his reach. “How else is the virgin supposed to learn?”

Jim froze, keeping his back to Sherlock. “I’m not interested.”

Sherlock straightened, steepling his fingers under his chin again. He’d never been interested in the rituals of courtship before. He assumed that’s what this was. He knew enough to know that the goal, like seduction, was to entice. “We both know that’s not entirely true,” the detective drawled. 

Jim turned slowly, a grimace on his face. “Clever.”

“It’s what you like.” 

“I take it you’re fixed on this as payment.”

Sherlock’s heartbeat pounded in his ears. So close. So close. “It’s not entirely unappealing to you either. Otherwise you’d have walked out of here to do the job yourself or write off your employee as lost.”

“Lover,” Jim corrected.

“Favorite plaything,” Sherlock retorted. 

“But you’re asking for more,” Jim said.

“Obviously.”

“And you’re not concerned that you may be asking more from me than I am capable of giving you. You’ll be disappointed Sherlock.”

“Unlikely. But that’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

Jim took John’s chair, leaning back as he scanned Sherlock carefully. As if looking at him for the first time. Sherlock shivered under the scrutiny, loving every second of Jim’s attention so fully upon him. “How would this work? Being yours?”

 “You would move in here. Share my life.” Sherlock swallowed thickly. “Share my bed.”

 Jim paused, watching Sherlock carefully, as if he still couldn’t quite grasp the nature of what was being requested. Finally he shook his head. “No. Moving in with you invites discovery. I went to a lot of trouble to get my anonymity back. Losing that in addition to becoming your rent boy is too high a price.”

“Lover,” Sherlock corrected.

“Favorite plaything,” Jim retorted with vicious glee.

Sherlock sighed. “I’ll move in with you then.”

Jim glanced around the flat in disdain. “With your squalid living habits? No.” Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but Jim cut him off. “Besides I think your little friends would notice if you suddenly disappeared, hmmm?”

Sherlock sank back into his chair, deep in thought. “Most couples spend an average of 35 - 40 hours a week in each other’s company during the first year. Add sleep to the mix and that brings us to about 80 hours a week. 52 weeks in a year brings us to 4160 hours. That’s what I want from you.”

Jim blinked. “Are you seriously putting me on the clock?”

“Unless you have a better alternative.”

Jim licked his lips and glanced around the room, gaze shifting everywhere but directly at the detective. There was tinge of color to Jim’s neck. If Sherlock didn’t know any better, he’d read the body language as bashful. It was adorable. He wanted to kiss the skin there, strip away the suit and trace how far down Jim’s body the color ran. An image of Jim bare and stretched out under him flashed through his mind, sending his heart racing.

“Shut up,” Jim said, crashing the emerging daydream down. 

“I didn’t say anything,” Sherlock said.

“You were thinking it,” Jim growled. “Loudly.”

Sherlock stood, carefully approaching Jim once more, gratified to see the criminal watching warily, but not moving to retreat. Sherlock reached out, carefully, ready to pause at any moment. His fingers tingled when they touched the warmth of Jim’s cheek. “You better distract me then,” he said, leaning down, lips hovering inches from the object of his obsession.

Jim turned his head, walking away, rolling his head slightly against his shoulders. “You haven’t earned that yet Holmes. Moran is still in your brother’s custody. You have 48 hours to complete the job or this deal is off.”

Sherlock watched as Jim disappeared out his door without another word.


	3. Chapter 3

It took Sherlock 43 hours to execute Moran’s escape. As usual Mycroft wasn’t completely clueless as to his brother’s involvement, but had no proof, nor could he ascertain what Sherlock’s motive would be in such an action. Which is why three days later, he was paying his fourth visit to Baker Street since the escape. 

“You’re doing remarkably well after your little relapse,” Mycroft said for the second time that day.

Sherlock plucked absently at his violin strings, gaze suddenly snapping back into focus. “Are you still here? I thought you went home.”

“The Watson’s are busy with their new bundle of joy, the hoard of Moriarty dopplegangers are dispersed, and I understand you are refusing to take new cases.” He folded both hands over the handle of his umbrella, leaning to rest his chin atop them. “How do you pass the time?”

Sherlock glared. “I’m not refusing new cases. Only the boring ones,” he spat out.

“And the case of Sebastian Moran’s inexplicable escape from MI6 custody is one of these …boring cases?”

Sherlock jumped up from his seat, crossing the room. “Oh for god’s sake Mycroft. I caught the man for you the first time. It’s hardly my fault that your people botched it up.” 

“I reviewed the footage, what’s left of it anyway. It was clearly a superiorly executed job.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched into a controlled smile. He began to resin his bow. “He was Moriarty’s right hand, he must have had resources.”

“Resources yes,” Mycroft said, eyes fixed on his brother. “But the complexity of this level of cunning is a little outside the Colonel’s wheelhouse.”

“Boring,” Sherlock said, continuing to resin his bow.

“Worthy of Moriarty.”

Sherlock hesitated, but quickly continued what he was doing. “Moriarty’s dead. Your people are simply morons.”

“That’s a little much isn’t it,” Mycroft said lightly.

Sherlock whirled at the spot. “Not at all. Perhaps if you spent more time developing your staff, you wouldn’t feel the need to -“

“No Sherlock. I mean, that’s quite a lot of resin on your bowstrings isn’t it?” Mycroft’s surgical gaze attempted to pin his brother down. 

Sherlock refused to be so easily fixed. He set down his bow and flopped into his chair, slouching like a child. “If you don’t have anything interesting to say, leave,” he grumbled.

Mycroft arched a brow, but was otherwise completely still. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

“What?”

“Sebastian Moran out in the wind. Free to wreck havoc? He may come after you. After the Watsons.”

Sherlock huffed. “If he’s stupid enough to cross my path again, rest assured, I’ll take care of him.” Sherlock shot Mycroft a tight smile, hands conducting in the air. “I’ll even giftwrap him for you.” 

Mycroft straightened. “Well here you are. A man of leisure. You’re usually itching for a fix by now aren’t you?”

“I’m clean,” Sherlock growled. 

Mycroft looked him over musing. “Yes. I have to wonder why.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Don’t tell me you’re disappointed I’m not high.”

“No. I’m pleased you seem to be recovering all on your own.” Mycroft circled one hand in the air. “Miraculous.” 

“Just a matter of willpower,” Sherlock muttered.

“Or of finding a new distraction.” Sherlock glared at Mycroft, but the elder brother continued cooly. “Or perhaps an old one?”

“For god’s sake. Clean,” Sherlock yelled, curling up in his chair and turning his back to his brother.

“From chemical influences certainly.”

“What are you trying to so clumsily suggest Mycroft,” Sherlock growled, shifting rapidly in his seat to stare his brother down.

“I have reason to believe that Moriarty is in fact alive.”

Sherlock huffed. “Oh not this again. What is he, the new bogeyman. What possibly makes you think so? Moran?”

“No Sherlock. You.” 

The brothers stared at each other in silence for several long seconds, neither relenting, both trying to read and deflect being read. 

Sherlock was the first to look away. “If I discovered his return, I’d obviously inform you.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “Which is why I wonder why you haven’t.”

“Because he’s dead,” Sherlock spat. “I’m over that. I’m over this conversation. Change the topic or leave.”

Mycroft’s gaze was unwavering. “Well if he is back. His lover has just been returned to him.”

Sherlock shot Mycroft another glare. 

“Didn’t you know?”

“Of course I knew,” Sherlock said. “It’s simply irrelevant.” 

“Oh I forget you’re a little slow on how these things work.”

“What things,” Sherlock muttered, ire growing by the second. “How what works?

“If Moriarty is alive-“

“Which he isn’t.”

Mycroft smiled tightly. “Yes. But if he were, Moran’s escape means we have lost any leverage we might have had on him.”

“Untrue. You never had leverage.”

“I don’t see how that’s true.”

“Moran means nothing to Moriarty.”

Mycroft sat back in his chair. “Interesting. And how do you deduce that?”

Sherlock waived off Mycroft’s comment absently. “If that man provided anything close to a fulfilling relationship, Moriarty wouldn’t have been so lonely.”

“You think he’s lonely?”

“Of course he was lonely. Remember how desperate he was for attention. Flirtatious, terrifying, but hollow. If he weren’t lonely, he would have never sought me out.”

“Curious. I would have thought the last part of that sentence would be, he would have never killed himself.”

“That part is obvious. Moriarty’s attempt to engage me before hand indicates that he wasn’t getting what he needed from Moran. He would have never played the game.”

“I seem to remember you egging him on.”

“But he initiated it.”

“You had discovered his existence. It was a counter-strike Sherlock.”

“He was reaching out, then tried to warn me away. He didn’t want to destroy me. He didn’t just want the game.”

Mycroft snickered. “That’s your ego talking Sherlock. A man who drives you to throw yourself off a roof doesn’t strike me as particularly lovestruck.”

“Yes, well what would you know about these kinds of things.”

“What would you, brother mine?” 

Sherlock remained silent, morose. 

“Yes,” Mycroft mused eyeing his brother carefully. “That’s what I’m afraid of. Need I remind you of Ms. Adler.”

Sherlock jumped to his feet. “Well it’s been a lovely visit Mycroft, but I feel the sudden need to smoke.”

Mycroft remained seated, clearly unimpressed.

“Or if I have to endure your company much longer, something stronger.”

Mycroft rose to his feet slowly. “Fine. But you will tell me if you hear anything.” He pulled a cigarette from his breast pocket and handed it to his brother.

“Of course,” Sherlock said, taking the cigarette between two fingers and ushering his brother to the door. 

Mycroft turned, hand slapping against the door, halting its arc a moment before it could have closed. “If you find yourself in over your head Sherlock, call me? I’ll always be there to help you. No matter what you’ve done.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh for god’s sake,” he grumbled, shoving Mycroft back and slamming the door in his face. “Good bye Mycroft.”

Sherlock leaned against the door, listening to his brother’s footsteps hesitate briefly in the hallway before beginning their descent down his stairwell. The detective released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. 

He stalked across the room and picked up his phone. No new messages. What was taking Jim so long? He had upheld his end of the deal. Jim had given him 48 hours and yet here they were 72 hours after the job was done and not a word from the criminal. Mycroft’s words echoed in his mind. Moriarty’s lover has been returned to him. 

He lit his cigarette, puffing it to life, nerves on fire. Yes of course it was possible Jim wouldn’t uphold his end. Equally possible that Sherlock had blindly just given the criminal what he wanted.  
 Need I remind you of Ms. Adler?

Sherlock groaned, ruffling his hair, trying to dislodge unpleasant thoughts. Stupid. Naive. To fall for the same trick twice, completely unforgivable. He stared at the blank screen of his phone. No messages. No texts. Was he with Moran right now? Saying good bye? 

Sherlock bit his lip. Or perhaps celebrating their reunion. The thought made Sherlock’s stomach twist. Sebastian Moran’s large hands roaming over pale skin, fingers lacing through dark hair. Sherlock coughed on his cigarette, appalled as he stomped it out in the fireplace. 

He’d admit Moran was above the average criminal, but no where near Jim’s caliber. No one was. Jim had said it himself, Sherlock and he were made for each other. Only the two of them. So why? Why was he letting someone like that touch him? Why had he ever?

Irrelevant, he reminded himself. Jim belonged to Sherlock now. He had agreed to it. That was the deal. And yes, perhaps the way Sherlock had procured that had been a bit not good, but certainly Jim of all people would understand and forgive such a lapse of moral fortitude. 

One year with Jim. One year to convince Jim to want more than a year. To want a lifetime. Neither of them would ever be bored again. It was perfect. Didn’t Jim see that? The Jim in his mind palace knew. He knew. Jim had to know.

Sherlock wanted to see him. Wanted to touch him. He glanced at the couch, the edges of his mind palace beckoned. He could touch Jim there if he really wanted to. Have him any way he wanted. He shook his head of the thought. No. He didn’t have to settle for phantoms. He had the real thing now. At least in theory. 

He felt itchy, antsy. He stared at the screen of his phone again, finding it still appallingly blank. Perhaps he needed to take the initiative. His fingers flashed over the keyboard. 

/Are you dissatisfied with your results? SH/

The text had been sent for all of two seconds when he got a reply. The speed made Sherlock smile.

/Not at all. XX/

The content made Sherlock frown. Okay. Jim was happy. But happy in the way that would make Sherlock happy too or just happy that he’d gotten away with outwitting him again?

/I’m not usually one to press a client on a timetable for payment. SH/

/A good policy. Don’t want to come across as needy. XX/

Sherlock stared at the response. Okay. Should he back off now? Was that what Jim was saying? He licked his lips, carefully considering his next words. He wanted to know, but was afraid of the answer at the same time.

/Shall I assume you have chosen to default on payment then? SH/

This time there was no immediate response. Sherlock sighed. Of course. Jim had used his interest to get what he wanted, nothing more. Jim wanted nothing from him. The thought made Sherlock’s knees buckle under him. Jim didn’t want him. 

He slid to the ground, staring at his last message. Mycroft was right. It was all in his head. He’d read into the situation what he had wanted. He was alone. Had always been alone. Thinking otherwise had just been self-delusion. His phone finally pinged with an incoming text, pulling him out of his spiral.

/The Savoy. Royal Suite. 7pm tonight./ 

Sherlock blinked a few times at the message. Trying to determine whether or not his mind had simply conjured it into being. 

Sherlock thought he had crafted his response carefully, but it still came out stupid. Childish.

/No. My place. SH/

/The hotel or nothing at all. :-( /

A frown face? Jim had never sent him one of those before. A lavish hotel to be sure, but it lacked intimacy. He wanted to wrap Jim up in his sheets, smell the two of them mingled in the air. Sherlock sighed. At least this wasn’t a no. He tried to shake off his doubt. This was just the start after all. There was time to bring Jim home. 

/Understood. I’ll be there. SH/

He had four hours to get ready. Sherlock spent three of it trying to figure out what to wear.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock was late. Not unusual in itself, but the detective had never felt quite so self conscious about it before. He paced in front of the door to the hotel suite. His heart rate was well above elevated, he was sweating. In fact he was displaying all of the symptoms John had once exhibited before going on dates he was particularly keen for. Sherlock had always found it amusing to see John so flustered, teased him ruthlessly about it, but nevertheless been shocked to discover the women he was so nervous about did not pick up on the obvious visual cues. He would have no such luck. Jim would see it, instantly. In a glance he’d know exactly what Sherlock’s state was. He couldn’t allow Jim to see him being ordinary.

He turned, marching back toward the elevator, down to the first floor. He freshened up in the lobby bathroom for the second time since he had arrived, then returned to the floor of the suite, only to hesitate once more. He steepled his fingers under his chin and began to pace the hallway again. He was now thirty minutes late. Reaching the point where tardiness started to stray outside the acceptable bounds of manners.  
 He placed his palm against the door. Trying to steady himself. This would have been better at Baker Street. Meeting Jim at a hotel felt wrong somehow. Affairs were held in hotels. Prostitutes solicited in them. Anniversaries celebrated. 

Wait. 

That last one wasn’t so bad. Sherlock scanned his memory for any significance today had for his and Jim’s history. Finding none, a new wave of insecurity washed over him. The more romantic symbolism of the three options seemed unlikely then. No doubt Jim was making a point. He intended for Sherlock to feel wrong about this. From which we can conclude? Jim feels this is wrong.

A mistake. Yes. He’ll send Jim a message. Ha Ha. Only kidding. Did you really think I’d ask for you in payment? No. No! I’m strictly a thinking machine. Physicality is abhorrent to me. Everyone knows that. Had you going though, didn’t I? Until the next game. Cheers. 

He waved his hand, discarding that thought. Rubbish. Okay. Something more heartfelt. It was never my intention to make you feel uncomfortable by infringing upon your person. Though to be fair, your destruction of my reputation and driving me to jump off a building was an equal if not greater infringement, so you really have no reason to complain. But anyway, I value you too much to … Um. How about, I assure you that my feelings for you are … 

Nope. No. Stupid. Sherlock ruffled his hair violently between his fingers in frustration, undoing the twenty minutes of work he had put into taming his curls earlier in the evening. Realizing this, he growled, storming back down hallway toward the elevator. He needed a cigarette. 

He was leaning against the wall of the hotel, on his fourth cigarette and now over an hour late, when his phone pinged with an incoming text. He hesitated to look, no doubt Jim was furious by now. When he finally drummed up the courage to pull out the phone it was John.

/Where are you? I stopped by, but you seem to be out. JW/

Sherlock sighed. Mycroft was apparently having John check up on him again. Okay. Moment of truth. Go home now and assure his brother that he is fine. Or lie and go through with this. He didn’t think long on the matter.

/I’m out. An experiment. SH/

/An experiment. Right. Do you need someone to drive you? JW/

Sherlock sighed, exacerbated. Why did everyone think he was high? Oh. Right. Because he usually was. Still, he wasn’t now. The thought of meeting Jim under the influence was embarrassing. He supposed sharing that bit of information would be less than reassuring for John. It didn’t matter. He had something more pressing to think about than what his friends thought of his drug habit.

/I’m not inebriated if that’s what you’re implying. SH/

/Nope. Not implying anything. But if you were it’s fine. Well not fine fine, but fine. I’ll come get you. JW/

/Of course it’s fine. I’m not high. Tell Mycroft I’m not high. If I were high, I’d find this conversation much less tolerable. SH/

/Okay Sherlock. I believe you. Call me anytime. Are you going to be back at Baker Street tonight? JW/

Sherlock’s gaze shifted up the facade of the building, to the top floor. The light was still on. 

/Unknown. Don’t wait on me. I don’t know how long this will take. SH/

Sherlock shut his phone down after hitting send and fished his pack of cigarettes out of his coat. He held the flame out to light another, when he paused before ignition. No. There was no point in any further delay. He shoved the package back into his coat pocket and joined the flow of a group of hotel guests entering through the front doors. 

He paused by the elevators then backtracked, diverting himself to the lobby desk where he ordered a bottle of wine and flowers. He waived off delivery, handing the manager a 100 pound note to allow him to carry them up himself. Yes. It was ordinary, but it was a cliché because it worked as a tool to endear. 

By the time he reached the door of the suite, he was a full two hours late. He raised his hand to knock, but before his knuckles could make contact with the wood, the door opened and Jim was looking at him with that dull blank expression which Sherlock had always found unnerving. 

“4158,” he said, eyeing the wine and flowers in Sherlock’s arms, then turning, unimpressed, to meander back into the expansive suite.

Sherlock followed him, closing the door behind them. “What’s that supposed to mean,” he said, setting his gifts down to find that a meal and champagne were already set for two by the window. The champagne bottle was open, half empty. The food was cold and untouched. 

Jim drained his glass, then turned the crystal in his fingers in idle examination. “Don’t be dense. That’s how much time you have left on your tab darling.” The base of the glass clanged with dissonant musicality as the criminal set it a little too hard on the table.

“But I just got here,” Sherlock grumbled, removing his coat and hanging it in the hotel closet. 

“Yes,” Jim said quietly. “What part of 7pm did you not understand?”

“I’m always late,” Sherlock muttered, waiving a hand dismissively.

Jim turned, hands in the pockets of his posh pale gray suit. “If that’s how you choose to use your time, it’s nothing to me. We’re on your quid dear.”

“So anytime I’m late, you’re still going to count that toward our agreement?”

Jim tilted his head, as if Sherlock had said something incredibly stupid. “Of course.”

“No,” Sherlock said, irritated. “You don’t understand I was -“

“Boring,” Jim interjected, eyes sliding shut. He rolled his head on his neck, that habit of his which made it look like he was perpetually trying to work out a strained muscle. When he opened his eyes he continued, mask in place, soft and sweet. “And you’re welcome for not simply leaving after you failed to show the first hour. I’ve killed for less.”

Sherlock scratched the back of his head absently. He scanned the room again. Right. Not good then. He gestured vaguely in the direction of the table. “You put some effort into this.”

Jim brushed past Sherlock to pick up the wine bottle and examine the label. “And you appear to have put all of two seconds of thought into it.” 

“Not true,” Sherlock barked, causing Jim’s attention to snap up to him, eye contact sharp and dark. This must be what John was always going on about when he said Sherlock was acting like a git and ruining his dates. The detective blushed. “Sorry. I have been thinking about this quite a bit, but I’ll admit this has not been my area in the past.” 

Jim shoved the bottle into Sherlock’s arms. “Open it,” he said. “It’s apparently going to be a tedious night.”

Sherlock’s ears were burning. He stared at the bottle in his hands. He felt like a child. “Why did you do it?”

Jim wandered to the window, looking out at the skyline for a moment before his gaze wandered up to the sky absently. “Do what?”

Sherlock approached the dinner table, picking up the corkscrew and turning it in his hand. “All of it I suppose. Why did you agree to this when it’s obvious that you find me appalling?”

Jim chuckled, eyes still fixed to the sky. “I’ve never found you appalling Sherlock. Don’t fish for compliments.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said. “Good. That’s good.” He opened the wine bottle with a pop, then set the bottle down to breathe. Okay, that was done. He glanced up at Jim, hoping he approved, only to find the man still looking up at the sky. That was curious. “What are you looking at?”

Jim glanced back at the detective and smirked. “Nothing you’d understand,” he said. He took his time wandering back toward the table, fingertips tracing the polished hardwood as he passed. “Are you going to pour me a glass? Or am I going to have to coach you through every step of this?”

Sherlock swallowed a lump in his throat. Jim was looking at him again. Focused on him. A shiver of pleasure went up his spine at the intensity of the man’s dark gaze. “I’ve never been one to follow instructions."

 Jim smirked taking another step closer. “Time to try something new then.”

Sherlock’s gaze darted all over Jim, his ability to deduce anything disrupted by the criminal’s approaching proximity. He could smell Jim’s cologne. He heard his own breath beginning to go ragged as heat pooled in his stomach. He was getting hard. Jim paused, inches from the detective, giving him a good look over. He heard. He saw. He knew. Panic welled up, Sherlock’s heartbeat hammering out of control. He took a few dancing steps away from the criminal. He needed air. 

  Jim’s laughter vibrated through Sherlock’s blood. “I did tell you that you wouldn’t know what to do with me if you had me,” he said, picking up the bottle and filling a glass before bringing it to the detective now sitting on the couch, hunched over, close to hyperventilating. “Here. Liquid courage.”

Sherlock was appalled to find his hand trembled as he took the glass from him. He took an unsteady sip of the wine, swallowing down the lump in his throat. “You’re wrong,” Sherlock said, voice hoarse. “I know exactly what I want to do with you.” He looked up at the criminal hovering over him, forcing himself to keep his gaze steady.

“Do you now?” Jim ran his fingers over Sherlock’s shoulder, trailing feather light up his neck. The hairs on Sherlock’s arms stood on end at the electricity of the touch. Jim straddled Sherlock’s lap, draping his arms over his shoulders, leaning in to whisper in his ear. “Tell me.”


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock cautiously placed his hands on Jim’s hips. Soft cotton wool blend, lined with satin, cut slim against Jim’s surprisingly firm body, Sherlock could feel the heat of his skin through the fabric. The pressure of the man’s weight in his lap only exacerbated an erection growing ever more insistent. He exhaled raggedly, looking up into Jim’s eyes, lit with mirth. This close, in the light, they were hazel. 

“Nothing to say?” Jim leaned in, lips hovering inches above Sherlock’s open panting mouth, but he refused to close the distance. “Don’t tell me that you’re afraid,” the criminal teased, the breath of his words a tantalizing caress against his cheek, smelling of champagne and spearmint. 

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. His grip on Jim’s hips tightened and his gaze wandered down the long hallway toward the bedroom. From this angle he could make out a spacious room, well lit, a large bed draped in snow white linens with gold trim. Jim squirmed against his thighs, pulling a soft gasp from the detective. It was obviously intentional. Sherlock tried to glare, but only managed a look of pained desperation, which made the criminal laugh. 

It was a sensation he wasn’t used to. Knowing what he wanted, but having no idea how to achieve it. The basic mechanics of the act itself were of course obvious, instinctual, but the thought of underperforming for Jim paralyzed him. What did Jim like? For that matter, what did Sherlock himself like? He had fantasies of course, but knew enough to realize that there was a difference between the thought and the action. 

“You’re thinking too much,” Jim whispered. The warmth of his breath against his lips was tantalizing. Right. One step at a time then. 

Sherlock slid one hand up Jim’s back, hesitantly cradling the back of his neck and closing the distance between their lips. It was a feather light brush between their skin which sent a thrill of pleasure through Sherlock’s blood, a shiver through his skin. Jim noticed, of course he did. Sherlock felt the other’s lips curling up at the corners. He repeated the action, brushing their lips together again and again, experimenting, seeking the best place to make them connect. Jim’s tongue darted out, brushing the center of Sherlock’s top lip. He gasped.

 Sherlock’s fingers immediately slid into Jim’s hair, tightening, crashing their mouths together. His arm wrapped around Jim’s waist crushing the smaller man against him as he groaned into the criminal’s mouth, sliding his tongue hungrily against Jim’s, trying to inhale him, drink him in, consume him. 

Jim was surprisingly pliant. Mouth slack, taking Sherlock’s increasingly deepening kiss openly, without resistance. Instead, he pressed himself further against Sherlock’s chest, grinding his hips down against the bulge in his pants, spurring the detective on, pulling a whimper from his throat. 

Sherlock had kissed before. To deceive, to manipulate. He’d never kissed with want. So much want that it took him by surprise, and that in itself thrilled him. To have the object of desire warm and responsive in his grasp, promising more. And Sherlock wanted more. So much more, the infinite possibilities exploded through his mind, shorting out his reason. 

Jim was here. Willing. His. He moaned deep into the criminal’s throat. Breath ragged. Jim Moriarty was his. Only his. Kissing him. Touching him. In his lap. In his arms. Letting Sherlock take whatever he wanted. Alive. So very much alive. Heady and haunted, there was nothing outside this moment, outside the touch and taste and smell of him. 

Like a spring recoiling, the intensity of it blinded him, bright white, pressure peaked. Sherlock broke the kiss breathless, pressing his head against Jim’s chest, arms wrapped around him like a man drowning. He grimaced, groaned, then came. 

He clung to the man panting, mind spinning, time frozen in the aftermath of a new pleasure. When his senses started to return to him, Jim was completely still, save for the fingers lightly twining through Sherlock’s hair, petting him. “That was fast,” Jim hummed, amusement tinging the edges of his soft voice. Sherlock felt the wetness in his pants spread against his thighs and his face burned a deep crimson. 

He lifted his head, but couldn’t bring himself to look Jim in the eye. “I- I’m sorry,” he said to the floor. 

Jim chuckled, taking Sherlock’s hand and guiding it to his crotch. “We have time for you to make it up to me.”

Sherlock inhaled sharply at the heat emanating from the bulging cloth, his hand guided up the length of the tented fabric. Oh. Bigger than he had expected. He slid his palm up and down the covered length, feeling the measure of it. He’d never given much thought to the size of other people’s reproductive anatomy before, let alone compared himself to them. He unzipped Jim’s trousers, slipping his hand inside and pulling his cock free. Perfectly straight, medium girth, hot and hard. Sherlock curled his fingers around the soft flesh, gaze fixated on the wet pink tip. He knew from his examination of corpses that he himself was above the average, but it was an inconsequential observation, a fact that barely registered. He was surprised to find he was, for the first time, sizing himself up against another man and wishing he had more. To his dismay, he found himself wondering how big Moran was. 

A single finger slipped under Sherlock’s chin, tilting his face up to look Jim in the eye. “Have you ever touched yourself before?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Of course I have.”

Jim’s finger slid along his jawline. “How did you do it?”

Sherlock blushed. “Um. I usually found such a condition an unwanted distraction.”

Jim shook his head, laughing. “So you took care of it as quickly and efficiently as possible?”

Sherlock looked away. 

Jim’s fingers threaded through the small hairs at the base of his neck. “Hmmm. How unsurprising.”

Sherlock jerked his hand away. “If you’re just going to make fun of me -“

The fingers in his hair tightened, pulling a gasp from the man, holding him steady for Jim to bore his gaze into him, intense, but to Sherlock’s surprise not malicious. Jim guided Sherlock’s hand back to his cock. “Of course I’m going to tease you Sherlock. It’s fun. You want me to have fun, don’t you?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock said, fingers curling once more around the length, sliding his hand up and down, unsteady, unsure of his motions. He bit his lip, steeling his courage to meet Jim’s gaze once more. “Tell me what you like… please.”

Jim searched Sherlock’s face, brows furrowed, but eyes alight. Suspicion? Curiosity? “Now that is surprising,” he said

Sherlock frowned. “What is?”

Jim kissed the pout from Sherlock’s lips as he wrapped his hand around the detective’s, increasing the grip around his cock, and gently guiding the other man’s hand into a steady rhythm. It wasn’t the intense, quick, perfunctory pace Sherlock was used to using on himself. It started slow, grip tight, but not hard, not yet. Jim leaned against him, resting his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder, measured shallow breaths caressed his neck. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and focused on the rhythm, the pressure of the grip, cataloging every detail of how Jim was guiding his hand, the way it affected the man’s breathing. He noted Jim’s pulse through his palm, at what point Jim guided his thumb up to the tip, circling the pad of his finger against it, spreading the precum, which Sherlock was surprised to find he had a sudden craving to taste. But he dared not break Jim’s spell. He counted the variations in strokes, measured it against Jim’s response. One. Two. Three. Change. One. Two. 

Somehow Jim read his mind. The stubble of his upper lip scratching lightly as he nipped at Sherlock’s ear lobe, breaking his concentration. “I understand Sherlock, but not everything is a formula. Some things you have to feel out. Experience to know. It’s experimental, improvisational, not something you learn by rote.” 

Sherlock blinked, the light of the room looking a bit more golden than it had been. The touch of Jim’s breath marking the pleasure brought by the caress of Sherlock’s hand. He stopped thinking and fell into the rhythm Jim had set, barely registering when the other man’s guiding grip slipped away to curl against his bicep. Sherlock varied the pressure and speed, massaging Jim’s balls, marveling at the slide of the precum which now generously coated his prick. When he first heard Jim exhale a soft moan of pleasure, Sherlock’s blood caught fire. That was him. He had made that happen. He wanted to make it happen more. 

His free hand slid up into Jim’s hair, pulling the man’s head back to look at his face. Skin flush, eyes black and heavy lidded, lips swollen, but still faintly curved into a haughty smile. Sherlock kissed him, exploring Jim’s mouth once more as he stroked him, swallowing soft moans and drinking them in, making him bolder.

He lost track of time, but soon Jim was squirming, trying to break away to steal a breath only for Sherlock to catch his lips again. The criminal’s fingers tightened against his arm, he whined into the kiss, body tensing. Sherlock committed to memory the very moment when Jim finally broke free, head tilt back, neck stretched as a groan of pleasure tore from his throat, cum coating Sherlock’s hand, filling his nostrils with the smell of sex. He never knew something so ordinary and human could thrill him to his core. His hand slipped from Jim’s hair to slide down his back, cradle his slumped form in wonder. He’d just given Jim Moriarty an orgasm. He had done that. 

Just when he thought he couldn’t process any more from the action they’d just done, Jim pulled Sherlock’s hand from his lap and began to lick his cum from the detective’s long fingers. At the sight Sherlock forgot how to breathe.


	6. Chapter 6

The hotel shower had a satisfying amount of water pressure and was capable of reaching the near scalding temperature Sherlock preferred. Hands planted against the cool tiles, his feet were obscured below him by the billowing steam. He watched the water drip from his hair into the mist below to join a spiraling trail down a chrome drain. 

 He didn’t know what he was going to wear now. He hadn’t ejaculated into his own clothes since he was a preteen, dismayed by his own wet dreams. A fluffy white hotel robe hung on a brass hook in the washroom. It would have to do, but the thought of wearing that and only that when he rejoined Jim in the suite was a bit intimidating. 

Sure wearing nothing but a sheet was fine for visiting the Queen of England, but wearing a glorified towel in front of the King of Crime was apparently one step too far. Even he didn’t understand how his mind worked sometimes. Perhaps it was the idea of exposing himself to Jim so quickly. He could walk in there, right up to him, open the robe and let it slide off his body to the floor. Offer himself blatantly. His cock twitched at the thought.

“No,” he whispered to his body. “Get yourself under control.”

Irene would do it. She wouldn’t bat an eye at the thought, wearing her sexual desire like a badge of honor. And Jim would purr promising taunts in return. What a dazzling display that would make. Irene sparring in innuendo and seduction on equal footing with Jim. Sherlock lifted his face into the spray. Had Irene and Jim ever -? She knew him, that was certain, but he could never confirm whether they had met in person. Would Jim have seen the same thing in Irene that he had? Felt the same pull? They were alike enough that it was possible. The woman of their species. 

‘He just likes to cause trouble’, she had crowed once, her crimson mouth curved in a cruel kind of pride. ‘Now that’s my kind of man’.

Sherlock was surprised to find an image of himself between the two spring forth, unbidden into his mind. Him and her, one on each side, touching him, kissing him, having him. To have them both… Despite the extreme heat of the water, the skin on his arms and thighs erupted into gooseflesh.

Ah. “Not helping,” he whispered into the water. But still he couldn’t help but wonder if it was something Jim would agree to. Something he could arrange.

Sherlock snorted, blowing droplets of water from the tip of his nose. Getting ahead of himself now, wasn’t he? He still had to shed his virginity tonight and if the recent prelude had proven anything, it was how much of a novice he still was at this. Hardly the time to start planning threesomes.

But the image wouldn’t vanish. The curve of Jim’s lips tracing the curve of Irene’s thigh. Her well manicured fingers winding around Jim’s tie, yanking him toward her by the collar. The filthy things they’d say to each other. The filthy things they’d say to Sherlock when they finally turned their dual attentions on him. Their eyes burning, the color of the sky, both night and day. 

To have both…

Something brushed Sherlock’s stomach, breaking his revelry. He glanced down, blinking against the water. Damn. He was hard again.

He wrapped his fingers around his cock and began to take care of the little problem with his customary speed when he suddenly stopped, remembering the feel of Jim’s prick in his hands. He stroked himself slowly, a lazy gentle motion. Turning his face up toward the washroom door, he pondered the promise behind it through the steam frosted glass. If Irene were in his position, she wouldn’t hide the physical evidence of her lust. She’d use it.

Sherlock took a deep breath, turned off the water, then stepped onto the bath mat to stare at the robe, steeling himself for what he both wanted and feared to do. Nothing to do for it but jump headlong in. He wrapped the robe around him, tying off the sash with a sharp tight snap as if he were a soldier going into battle. He took a deep breath before opening the door, stepping out into the much cooler air of the main suite, marching directly back into the main parlor.

 Jim was at the window again, back facing Sherlock’s approach. Perfect. He padded toward him slowly, conscientious of his gait, going for a smooth step, sultry. He stopped a few feet from the man, unwinding the sash slowly, his heart rate beginning to gallop again. Sherlock opened the robe, one half at a time, exposing his bare skin to the air, cock proud and ready. Jim didn’t move. He was looking up at the sky again. Curious. With an elegant shrug worthy of Ms. Adler, the robe slipped from his shoulders pooling at his feet with an audible shuffle of cloth. Jim didn’t so much as twitch, gaze infuriatingly fixed out and up.

 Sherlock frowned, staring at the back of Jim’s head, willing him to turn around. Look at me. Look at Me! LOOK AT ME! He blinked, staring in silence for several frozen seconds before he huffed softly. Okay. It’s okay. Don’t ruin it now. Just need to get his attention before I … get his attention.

“Waiting for something,” Sherlock finally asked, trying to make his deep voice as silky and confident as possible.

Jim tilted his head, but didn’t look away from that stupid window, just shifted his attention to a different section of the sky. “There’s supposed to be a meteor shower tonight,” he mused, rudely distracted.

“Oh.” Sherlock began to feel a little less sexy and a lot more awkward standing there naked with no one aware nor appreciative of the fact. He glanced up, following Jim’s gaze. It was just the normal sky. Not a single shooting star in sight. He frowned as he looked at Jim. Even if there were any, what was so much more fantastic about that than what was happening here, right now? “So. Do you want to … um… go out on the terrace and watch it?”  
   
Jim chose that moment to turn around. His dark eyes widened for a split second, so quickly most people wouldn’t have registered it. He recovered with infuriating speed, humming with a crooked grin. “Why am I not surprised,” he said, very deliberately raking his gaze up and down Sherlock’s nude form, “to find that you’re an exhibitionist.”  
   
Sherlock immediately went red, snatching his robe off the floor and wrapping it hastily around himself. Stupid stupid idea. He crossed his arms protectively across his chest and stormed away a few paces. “I didn’t tie it properly,” he muttered. “It wasn’t intentional.”

Jim followed him at a lazy stride. Once he caught up, he slipped a finger under the sash, pulling Sherlock back toward him. “Clumsy you,” he said softly, untying the sash with more grace than Sherlock had and letting the robe hang open, framing his body. With the back of one knuckle he traced the length of Sherlock’s chest, from the hollow of his throat to his navel. 

Sherlock’s next breath stuttered as Jim slipped his palm around his waist and closed the distance between them. He tilted his head, lips hovering inches from Sherlock’s throat, breath hot on his skin. “I take it you haven’t had enough for the night?”

“I- I,” Sherlock fumbled, baffled how Jim managed to still look so unruffled and polished. He hadn’t removed his suit jacket. Even his bloody tie was still pristinely pinned in place. Sherlock licked his lips, throat going dry. 

“At least you have a low refractory time,” Jim continued, tracing the faint patch of hair leading down from Sherlock’s navel, accidentally on purpose brushing his erection, but not touching it nearly enough just yet. Jim looked up at him coyly. “Or perhaps you just find me particularly stimulating.”

Sherlock just stared at Jim in silence, brain coming to a screeching halt. Say something clever. Now. “Do you want to-” Jim hummed and Sherlock blushed, clearing his throat, a thousand different requests shuffling through his mind. “Do you want to go outside and watch the meteor shower?”

What? No. Where did that come from?

Jim’s tongue darted out to lightly trace a line down Sherlock’s jugular. “That’s okay. I know you’re not interested.”

The gears in Sherlock’s brain creaked slowly under the stimulation. Jim’s tone suggested teasing, but also regret. This was something Jim liked. And it didn’t involve explosives. Well meteors were kind of explosions. Maybe? He didn’t know, didn’t matter. But it was something Jim liked which neither killed anyone nor landed Jim in jail for a crime. Jim’s teeth were beginning to rake across his collarbone when Sherlock’s brain lurched suddenly forward. “I’m interested,” he said, the response a little too late, the words tumbling out a little too quickly.

Jim froze, stepping back and arching a brow as he smirked at the detective. “Really? Do you even know what a meteor shower is?”

Sherlock bristled. “Of course I do.”

Jim snorted. “Do tell professor.”

“Shooting stars. When meteors fall from the sky.”

 “And?”

“They fall to the ground.”

“When they're meteorites. What are meteors Sherlock?”

Sherlock waved vaguely in the air. “Space stuff.”

Jim laughed, shaking his head. “I am awed by your brilliance.” 

 Sherlock huffed. “I don’t need to understand them to appreciate them.”

Jim stopped laughing, but his smile remained. Sherlock wasn’t sure what it was that made Jim look at him with what could be construed as a … warmth? “No. I suppose you don’t,” he said at last. Jim held out his hand. Sherlock stared at it for a second in confusion, then slipped his hand into the open gesture, allowing himself to be led out into the warm night.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I really intended to do school work today, but this just sort of happened. Ah well. I hope this story doesn't end up being too distracting from my academic goals.
> 
> All the nice comments, kudos, and general support have been really motivating. Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to encourage me.

When Sherlock stepped out onto the terrace, the stone tiles under his feet were cool, contrasting with the warmth of the summer air. The lights of London glittered across the Thames River, reflecting up into a patchwork of clouds which obscured the stars. He frowned at that. “We’re not going to be able to see very much.”

Jim slid behind him, fingers curling along the edge of his robe, pulling it from his shoulders and dropping it to the ground. “That depends on what you’re looking at,” he whispered into Sherlock’s ear. 

Sherlock blushed, taking a couple steps back from the railing. “We’re outside,” he said.

Jim’s designer shoes made the faintest sound as he moved toward him with slow measured steps, head tilted down, dark eyes fixed ahead, teeth flashing bright. “Don’t be obvious. You wanted to be outside,” he purred, wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s bare waist once he reached him. One palm slid down Sherlock’s stomach, cupping his balls and rolling them teasingly in a light hold. “We’re on the top floor. No cameras. Big Brother won’t see.”

Sherlock struggled to focus as a soft moan broke from his lips. He wasn’t entirely sure what Jim was doing with his hand, but it felt wonderful. He glanced around the space through a haze of lust, confirming for himself that they were indeed relatively safe from prying eyes. So long as no one near parliament was watching this particular hotel with a telephoto lens. Sherlock cleared his throat. “Yes. Ah- Okay.” He hesitated, licking his lips and taking in the pure predatory gleam in Jim’s eyes with a strange kind of pleasure. “Jim you - can I-“

 Jim trailed his fingers down Sherlock’s spine, pausing at his tailbone to make soft circles there. Sherlock arched, his nipples painfully erect, his cock in an even worse state. “Yes my dear? It’s okay to talk. I won’t bite you.” He leaned in, teeth bare, as though he were going to nip at Sherlock’s lips, but at the last minute only brushed his lips faintly against the other’s, barely a touch. A faint, a tease, a whisper, “Though I suspect you want me to.”

 Sherlock lifted his hands, fingers trembling as they undid Jim’s tie pin. He tugged the knot free, pulling the silk from the other man’s collar with a slow slide. Jim watched with mirth, arching his brow as if he found the action surprising, as if he were humoring a particularly slow student. 

“You chose a nice room,” Sherlock said at last. He dropped the tie to the ground, meeting Jim’s gaze with a hunger he didn’t realize was quite this intense. 

“I aim to please,” the criminal said, watching Sherlock’s fingers with interest as they began to make their way down the buttons of his shirt, gaining confidence as they descended. Parting the fabric, Sherlock was elated to find no undershirt. Jim’s pale lean chest was nearly incandescent when lit only by the city lights. Sherlock slipped his fingers over the warm skin of Jim’s shoulders, under the cloth. In one push he dropped the clothing to the ground, skinning the criminal of his customary facade, shirt and suit jacket all in one go. 

Sherlock’s fingers traced the edge of Jim’s belt, hesitating. “Are you really mine?”

 Jim trailed a kiss down Sherlock’s chest, his tongue darting out to tease one of his pert nipples. “For now.”

Sherlock took a shaky breath, fingers finding their way to slide through the clasp of the belt, pull the leather free of Jim’s waist to discard on the floor. “And afterward?”

“Do you really want to have this conversation right now?” Jim sang, raking his fingers down Sherlock’s chest as he dropped slowly to his knees. 

Oh god. Sherlock’s skin felt like it might burst into flames. He stared up at the sky, watching shimmering clouds gleam against the night, afraid to look down and see a fantasy come true, lest he come too quickly. Again. “No.” 

Jim said nothing. There was only wet heat fully encasing Sherlock’s cock, making him cry out in surprise at a new sensation. Jim’s fingers dug into the detective’s hips and then there was movement. Tongue swirling, mouth moving up and down his length, taking him all the way in. Jim’s nose brushed his public hair as he worked his lips from tip to root. Over and over again. 

“Ah - please!” Sherlock wished he had something wittier to say, but his legs began to wobble with the pleasure, the relief, the build up. His fingers found their way into Jim’s hair, but by holding onto his head it only made him more aware of the motions, more aware of what Jim was doing. His hips canted, choking the criminal for a moment before the fingers at his hips tightened into a bruising hold, keeping his hips in place. Sherlock was surprised to find the slight pain there only added to his excitement. Then the attention on his cock doubled, a faster, wetter assault, and Sherlock was left with no room in his thoughts to ponder much of anything. 

“Jim please,” he whimpered, not sure what he was asking for. Sherlock doubled over, holding onto Jim’s hair for life as he was sucked off for the first time, fast and eagerly. God if they sold this feeling as a drug, having everything he ever wanted, by the thinnest sliver, in his grasp, heady and powerful, wanton and weak, he’d never be sober again. Pleasure began to peak, his fingers tightened, he clenched his eyes shut, a tense whine hanging in his throat. 

A dull pressure clamped around the base of his scrotum, bringing his ascent to a hanging halt. Sherlock’s chest heaved, exhaling shakily, daring to look down to find Jim smiling up at him with slick lips. His hand slowly relaxed the tight grip it held beneath Sherlock’s testicles. “Slow down honey,” he purred. “If you don’t learn to control yourself, I’m going to have to buy you a cock ring.”

Sherlock shuddered, reeling at the thought. “Buy me one anyway,” he whispered, breath short, body tense, his words escaping his lips before his brain had a chance to censor them. “Buy anything you want. Do anything you want. I- Jim I-”

Jim rose to his feet holding Sherlock’s gaze for a pregnant moment before his eyes slid shut, rolling his head on his neck slowly. “Careful angel. Don’t ask for things you’re not ready for,” he drawled.

Sherlock snorted. “For god’s sake! The last thing I need is one more person treating me like I’m made of glass.” 

Jim’s eyes opened slowly, so black they seemed to be part of the night. “Look at you talking big.”

Sherlock bristled, he grabbed the waistband of Jim’s trousers and yanked him toward him, wrapping him in his arms and kissing him with all the ferocity he could muster. “You are very much mistaken if you think me some delicate flower. I’ve made my desires in this arrangement fairly obvious,” he whispered against Jim’s lips, trailing his fingers along the curve of the smaller man’s shoulder. 

Jim giggled. “You’ve made your naiveté fairly obvious.”

“I’ve rejected experiences, yes. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t had desires.” He thread his fingers through Jim’s hair, leaning in to kiss him again. “Fantasies.”

 Jim was perfectly still within Sherlock’s embrace, watching his lips approach with detachment. “That’s always been your trouble Sherlock. You don’t know where fantasy begins and reality ends.”

“Reality,” Sherlock huffed. “Reality’s boring.” He settled on brushing his lips along Jim’s jaw, teasing his neck with teeth and tongue in a mimic of what Jim had done earlier. “Make a new reality with me Jim.”

“That is what they pay me for,” Jim hummed hollowly.

 Sherlock froze, releasing the criminal and taking a step back. “What are you trying to say?”

Jim blinked rapidly, then shook his head, smile curling back into place. “Nothing dear.”

Sherlock fumed. “No. No! You’re trying to imply something. What is it? Are you saying you’re not enjoying this?”

“Don’t be so needy. It’s sad.” Jim slipped from his grasp, making his way back to the stone railing of the terrace. He leaned over the ornate barrier, arms resting on the flat surface, hands clasped, to stare out across the Thames.

Sherlock stood frozen. A light summer breeze reminding him that he was standing there naked, out in the open, with a raging hard on. A flutter of vulnerability echoed through him. He straightened his posture, pulling himself together. “Am I to infer from your rather vague comments that you’re only doing this because of our agreement?”

 Jim turned to face him, leaning back against the stone barrier, both arms outstretched to drape across the railing, one leg crossed over the other casually. “And if I were, what then? Are you going to ask me to leave?”

Sherlock bit his lip, taking in Jim’s intense intelligent eyes, the expanse of his beautiful slim body silhouetted against the London skyline. Jim’s beauty for Sherlock’s eyes, Jim’s mind for his entertainment, Jim's body for his pleasure. In the city he loved, with the man he wanted, in a beautiful setting, it was the stuff of fantasy. Sherlock had committed a crime to have him, freed a dangerous international criminal, all for the sake of his own wants. Remembering Jim’s smell, his taste, the way he felt in his arms, the things he’d done so far for Sherlock’s carnal gratification, he knew it was shameless. Just as he knew he’d do it all again in a heartbeat. Could he end it now? Over a crisis of conscience? 

“Are you trying to appeal to my morality,” Sherlock asked stiffly.

“I’m trying to show you that morality has nothing to do with this,” Jim said simply. “You want me. You got me. But stop pretending this is anything more than it is.”

“It could be.”

“It’s not.”

They stared at each other in silence for several intense moments, neither flinching from the other’s gaze. Finally Sherlock broke the silence with a sigh. “Please stay.”

“Why?”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “Because it’s what I want.”

Jim crooked a finger. “Come here.”

Sherlock hesitated a moment, but crossed the distance to the edge of the balcony, planting his hands to either side of the criminal, crowding him. “Fuck me,” Sherlock murmured. 

Jim tilted his head, a sidelong glimmer of humor in his eyes. “Fuck me, what?”

“Fuck me now,” Sherlock growled. 

Jim’s grin widened, his eyes darting from Sherlock’s eyes to his mouth, to his eyes again. “There are only two tragedies in life,” he began.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, gripping the back of Jim’s neck and pulling him closer, pressing his cock against his bare stomach. “This is the one I’ve decided on.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argh. Someone stop me. I'm such Sheriarty trash right now. Take this laptop away from me so I can study.

Jim’s lips hovered near as if to kiss him, then where wrenched away as the man ducked under Sherlock’s arm and out of his grasp, strolling back toward the suite. Sherlock whirled, growling with frustration, but froze when he saw Jim's finger curling a silent command to follow with an impish wink. Oh.

 His bare feet hesitated a moment before cautiously following as bid, stepping into the bright light of the parlor. He felt more exposed, but no less keen. Jim didn’t stop, his gait a tad sassy as he sauntered toward the bedroom. Sherlock watched lean back muscles slide under pale skin with each step, admiring the way the slim waist tapered into Jim’s pale gray trousers. He’d never noticed just how pert Jim’s arse was.

“Stop staring at my bum,” Jim barked with laughter.

Sherlock flushed, gawking at the back of Jim’s head. “I- I wasn’t.”

“Yes you were,” Jim sang, spinning to face him at the bedroom door and sliding a hand up the door frame. 

Sherlock pressed his lips together in a fine line, his approach faltering when faced with the man. Damn it, how did he do that? Throw him off kilter, control every situation, make him dance. Even now, when Sherlock was the one who was supposedly playing the tune, Jim still took the lead.

“I - um…” 

 Jim lips twitched, and he rolled his body to rest his shoulders against the door frame, hands sliding down his stomach toward his trousers, unbuttoning them slowly, sliding them down his slim legs and kicking them to the side. The briefs he wore underneath were black. Sherlock frowned. He’d wanted to be the one to take those off of him. “Don’t pout dear,” Jim cooed, teasing the band down his hip. “If I let you do it we’d be here all night.”

Again with the mind reading. Sherlock realized how annoying it must be when he did that trick to others. Knowing how it was done did nothing to diminish the surprise, nor the pleasure of being deduced so thoroughly. Jim was showing off. Of course he was. Flirtation and power play all in one move. Leaving his opponent at a loss to his motives. Brilliant. Jim always had control. Always, except when -

Except… 

Sherlock went perfectly still, his eyes darting across the floor as he accessed a memory. He’d missed something. Something about the room. Replaying the events of their agreement, everything that had happened since he’d arrived in the hotel, the details of the dinner set for two, what he’d missed when he’d been thrown off by Jim’s cold shoulder. Yes. Something was off. Wait. Maybe. His mind flashed to that moment on the roof, when he seemed to have the upper hand, before Jim shot himself. Appeared to shoot himself. To any time Sherlock had the briefest moment of control over their interactions. Any time Jim was off guard. The things he did. The things he said. The game. The dance. Oh!

“You’re starting to get boring,” Jim deadpanned, trying to interrupt Sherlock’s thought processes, but aiming too late. 

Sherlock’s gaze snapped up to meet Jim’s with new intensity. He felt a moment of triumph when the criminal’s body went rigid at the impact. Only the slightest shift of his weight, betraying his unease. That was okay. Jim could be uneasy. This wasn’t really a battle, one on each side. This was the two of them playing entirely separate games on the same board. That was the theory anyway. He needed more data. The muscles in Sherlock’s back relaxed. So an experiment. 

“Apologies,” he said, walking toward Jim once again. He noted the step back Jim took, but paid it no heed, sliding past the man without looking at him. He hooked a single finger into the elastic of Jim’s briefs as he brushed by, tugging him along. “Come on then Mr. Sex,” Sherlock purred. “Show the virgin what you’ve got.” 

Jim froze to the spot, Sherlock’s finger lost its grip, the elastic snapped back against Jim’s hip with an audible smack. Sherlock dropped his hand and stood perfectly still, keeping his back to him. He let the silence hang. 

“Something wrong,” he said at last, breaking the standoff, but keeping eyes locked straight ahead, refusing to look back.

“What are you doing,” Jim whispered with low menace. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sherlock said, finally glancing back at the man over his shoulder with feigned innocence. Jim was blushing all the way down to his navel. Like he had been at Baker Street when he’d first proposed this. Sherlock struggled to keep the catch in his breath inaudible. 

“Yes you do,” Jim hissed, teeth bared. “You’re in a wretchedly good mood all the sudden.”

Sherlock turned, circling the criminal as though he were a curious thing. He pitched his voice lower than normal when he slid an arm around Jim’s waist to murmur in his ear. “Of course I am. I’m about to get laid.”

Jim’s body shivered in his arms, then went rigid. It was like holding a wild thing. Sherlock dared to indulge in the embrace for only a moment. Hold him too briefly and Jim could brush it off, hold him too long and Jim would get defensive. He planted a chaste peck upon Jim’s forehead, then slid away from him. Silence was his only answer. That was okay too. Sherlock strolled toward the bed, paused at the foot, then flipped around to flop down on it backward, arms outstretched with childlike abandon. 

“Comfy,” he said. He looked up a the canopy, then turned his attention to the large floor-to-ceiling window which overlooked London. “Then again, it should be, this suite costs, what, 17,000 pounds a night.” 

No response for a lingering moment. Sherlock closed his eyes and focused on breathing. Then footsteps, approach cautious, only then did Sherlock dare to look at him.

“A life of crime has left me with a boring amount of disposable income,” Jim drawled, planting one knee up on the mattress, watching Sherlock carefully. “What of it?”

Sherlock was careful not to look too long, not to move. “All the same. Thank you for such a lavish gesture. Most people don’t get to explore their sexuality under such luxurious circumstances.”

Jim refused to move any closer. “I don’t like sleeping on cheap sheets,” he growled. “Don’t read into it Holmes.”

So Jim had planned to stay through morning. Good. Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows. “Wouldn’t dream of it. In the interest of scheduling purposes only, of course, how many nights is the room reserved for?”

Jim’s face fell into that expressionless mask Sherlock hated, but he forced himself to betray nothing of his discomfort. “Three,” Jim said, his voice going dangerously sharp and soft.

Sherlock slid back, slow and lazy, resting his head against the plush white pillow. “I see. Then I suppose we can take our time.”

Jim remained motionless. “Checking out early is always an option though,” he hissed. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. Carefully now. “Then I’ll have to endeavor to not displease you.” 

“I warned you about making this into more than it is!”

Sherlock sighed, rolling over and up to his knees, crawling toward Jim, approach cautious, focused on appearing harmless. “I’m not,” he said, sliding a hand up Jim’s chest. “I promise I’m not. But if I do have the potential luxury of your company for the next three days, then you can’t fault me for taking advantage. You want me to have fun, don’t you?”

Jim snorted, looking out the window, shaking his head as if Sherlock had said something unbelievably offensive. But he was smiling, however faintly. “Clever.”

“Yes,” Sherlock purred, sliding his hands down Jim’s back, hooking his thumbs in the elastic of his pants and pulling them down to his thighs. “A scarce commodity.” Sherlock caressed the mound of Jim’s arse with both hands then gave the muscles a squeeze.

 Jim’s breath caught, his cock twitched, half-hard. Sherlock pulled him closer, daring to dart out his tongue and taste the tip. Strange, different, but not unpleasant. The way the member jerked and the gasp of surprise which slipped from Jim’s lips was, on the other hand, positively addictive. 

Sherlock took him fully into his mouth, eyes slipping shut at the sudden rush of lust surging through his veins. Fingers twined through his hair, but offered no resistance as Jim was pulled into the bed. “Careful with the teeth,” he hissed. 

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement, surprised to find Jim’s cock jump in response. He lavished his tongue across the thick vein under the member, humming a range deeper, to try to replicate the result. A whimper followed, both hands clutching in his hair. Sherlock smiled around the girth.

 “Don’t even think about it,” Jim warned darkly.

Sherlock chuckled low as he took Jim in as deep into his throat as possible. Then he hummed, using the full range of his baritone. Jim jolted like he’d been shocked, crying out with a surprisingly, pleasingly, wanton moan.

“Ah- I said don’t!“ 

Sherlock ignored the pull of his hair, loving the way Jim’s accent thickened just then. But he let Jim’s cock slide hard and heavy from his lips, settling on looking up at his flush face through a fringe of dark curls. “Too good?” 

Jim’s skin was flush, but he glowered down at him. “Don’t get smug just because you’ve learned a new trick.”

Sherlock wrapped his arms around Jim’s waist and rolled him onto the mattress. He brushed his mouth up the pale firm stomach, tongue darting out to flick the sternum of a hairless chest. “You get mad at me when I do sex stuff wrong, you get mad at me when I do it right.”

“Sex stuff?” Jim huffed a short laugh, lifting a leg to help Sherlock pull his pants free, turning his face away to watch them tossed dispassionately to the floor.

“Are all lovers this confusing?”

“Yes,” he said dully. “Get used to it.”

Sherlock slid his fingers across the soft skin of jutting collarbone, down the sinew of a well toned arm, feather light. Jim nude and laid out before him. Gorgeous. “I see. No wonder normal people seem half-mad when it comes to lo-“ 

Dark eyes snapped up to meet Sherlock’s gaze, cutting him off silently. Guarded. 

“-lust,” Sherlock finished, looking away. He traced the line where hipbone faded into thigh, willing Jim to let that slip slide unmentioned.

“I thought you wanted me to fuck you,” Jim said at last, body stone still beneath the pads of Sherlock’s fingers.

“I do,” Sherlock replied, not daring to look at him just yet. “Very much.”

Jim shifted, sliding off the mattress. Damn. Sherlock kept his gaze averted, listening to footsteps retreat with a sinking heart. Damn it damn it damn it. He was doing so well.

He reviewed the past several minutes rapidly in his mind, examining his error from multiple angles. He was so lost in his own thoughts that when Jim touched his shoulder, he nearly jumped out of his skin. Jim smirked at the detective’s baffled expression, holding up a condom and a tube of lubricant. “Relax. This won’t be pleasant if you’re too tense.”

Sherlock frowned at the condom. “You don’t need to wear that.”

Jim pushed Sherlock’s chest, throwing him back against the bed with a bounce. “Yes I do,” he said. “You should want me to. At least until we’re both tested.”

“I’m sure you’re clean and I don’t need to be tested.” Sherlock huffed. “As you’re so fond of reminding me, I’ve never had sex before.”

“I hate it when you’re stupid. Never let someone fuck you unprotected without knowing for sure.” Jim crawled over Sherlock’s body, trailing kisses up his thighs. “And you certainly should be tested.”

“Why?”

“You’re a junkie.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it. “Oh.” 

Sherlock squirmed restlessly against the bed. He had wanted to feel Jim. He didn’t like the idea of any barriers between the two of them. Even ones that made sense. Then Jim’s mouth was enveloping his cock again and all coherent thought fled his mind.

Jim’s tongue was positively wicked, toying with him, bringing him to the brink, backing off, repeating the process, until Sherlock was a panting writhing mess. Jim sat back, rubbing lubricant between his fingers. “Roll onto your stomach,” he whispered.

Sherlock blinked up at him. “Wha- No,” he said. “I want to look at you.”

Jim was silent, morose, clearly mulling through the request with some degree of conflict. 

“Please,” Sherlock added, biting his lip and drinking in the sight of the man. “I just want to see what you’re doing.”

“Okay,” Jim said at last, coaxing Sherlock’s legs apart. His finger teased lightly at his arse

Sherlock slid a hand behind Jim’s neck and yanked him down, kissing him hard and hungry, devouring his mouth. Jim made a startled squeak into the kiss, but slid a single finger fully into Sherlock’s body. A moan was swallowed between their lips, but Sherlock couldn't tell whose throat the sound had emerged from. His thighs parted eagerly and Jim’s finger slid deep, curving around to brush sensitive nerves to life, sending a spark of pleasure ricocheting through Sherlock’s body. “Yes,” he gasped against Jim’s mouth. “More.”

Jim chuckled, sliding in a second finger and beginning to work the quivering muscles open. “Needy in bed too. Unsurprising.”

Sherlock hooked a leg behind Jim’s back pulling him closer. “Shut up and get on with it,” Sherlock mumbled into another kiss, sliding his tongue into Jim’s mouth. 

Jim humored him for a few minutes, letting the other man tug at him, pull him closer, dominate his mouth, never losing focus on stretching him open. “You’re still tense. Tight,” he managed to mumble into between Sherlock’s ravaging attacks upon his mouth. Finally he broke the kiss with a gasp, grabbing Sherlock’s hair and pinning his head down. “Hold still and relax,” he said.

Sherlock froze blinking up into Jim’s eyes, mouth gasping open. “Okay. If you keep looking at me.”

Jim hesitated and Sherlock’s heartbeat spiked, wanting and fearing all at once. Sherlock let his leg slide down Jim’s waist, his thighs rolling open, making a conscious effort to relax his internal muscles. Jim’s ambivalence cracked into a sly smile. “So you can follow instructions when properly motivated,” he hummed, thrusting his fingers in and out of Sherlock’s body slowly. 

Sherlock’s breath caught when Jim rewarded him with what he wanted, holding his gaze as he touched him like that. Kept touching him. A soft whine hung in Sherlock’s throat. 

“Be patient,” Jim whispered, pressing their foreheads together as he pushed another finger into him. “It’s for your own good.”

Sherlock winced, the stretch beginning to burn. “I- I’m surprised th-that you - are - not eager t-t-to - ah - hurt me,” he gasped out. Jim only smirked, taking the opportunity to stroke Sherlock’s straining cock. Sherlock’s back arched off the bed with a strangled scream.

A dark chuckle slithered through Sherlock’s ears as fingers slid from his hole in a teasing slow glide. “Do you want me to hurt you Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinked up at him, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, mind spinning with the loss of Jim’s touch. “What?” 

Jim pressed a soft kiss to flushed lips. “Nothing.” He sat back on his heels, picking up the condom and opening it with his teeth. Sherlock frowned, but Jim only gave him a wink, sliding the silicon sheath down over his shaft in full view of the detective, making a small show of it. Sherlock exhaled shakily at the sight, anticipation building.

“Jim,” he whispered.

“Shhhh… You’re doing well.” Jim picked up the the bottle of lubricant, squeezing out another generous helping, applying it to himself and then even more to Sherlock. “Don’t tense up on me.”

 The detective wasn’t completely sure, but as Jim pressed more gel up inside him, thickly coating his hole, it seemed like more preparation than was strictly necessary. Jim was being extra careful with him then? Or was he reading into it? He didn’t have long to ponder the matter as the next moment Jim was filling him with something substantially larger than his fingers.

Sherlock groaned, grasping for the man above him, hands coming up empty. He settled for clutching the sheets under him as Jim pulled Sherlock’s legs up, resting his ankles over his shoulders, sliding fully into him in one slow steady stroke.

The sight of Jim’s body connecting with his was fantastically more erotic than Sherlock had dreamed it would be. His muscles tightened reflexively around Jim’s cock, trying to adjust to the intrusion. 

Jim’s breath stuttered, dark eyes slipping shut as he leaned over him, folding the detective in half, pushing himself deeper inside. “Just relax,” Jim whispered, trailing his lips down Sherlock’s outstretched throat. Fingers brushed Sherlock’s hair from his face. “Relax for me Sherlock.”

He tried to nod, but then Jim rolled his hips, a slow shallow movement, which made Sherlock writhe. Jim nipped at his lips, sing-songing, “That’s not relaxed. How am I supposed to fuck your tight eager arse if you don’t listen to me?”

“Please,” Sherlock gasped.

Jim rolled his hips slowly, pivoting the angle of penetration. “Or perhaps you’re tense because you don’t like it hmmm?” Jim’s dark voice brushed across Sherlock’s ear. “Now that you’ve got a nice big cock in in your arse, you only now realize it’s not quite your cuppa.”

Sherlock whined at the stimulation, too much, no where near enough. “N-no.”

Jim’s tongue traced a sinister pattern across Sherlock’s throat. “No? You want me to stop?”

“Don’t stop. Please.” Fuck the tease made it impossible to think.

“You want more then?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want Sherlock,” Jim hummed against his jugular vein.

“Fuck!” Sherlock jerked as something was brushed and fireworks went off in him. Only for a moment. It wasn’t enough.

“You’re going to have to be a bit more clear.”

Sherlock growled, grabbing Jim by a fistful of hair and pulling him forward until they were nose to nose. “Stop fucking with me and fuck me,” he snarled.

Jim’s dark blank expression broke into a manic laughter. “Oh my angel,” he purred.   He gripped Sherlock’s hips and thrust into him hard, slipping into a brutal pace which made Sherlock cry out with bliss. For the next forty minutes Sherlock found himself incapable of coherent thought of any kind.


	9. Chapter 9

Warmth crept onto Sherlock’s face, vaguely stirring him into consciousness. His nose itched. Cracking open an eye, he was assaulted with the late morning sunlight filling the room, turning everything golden. Recalling where he was, what had happened, panic spiked when he realized that there was no warm body touching him. He sat bolt upright. Then he saw Jim laying on his stomach, making a disgruntled little noise at the disturbance. Sherlock’s shoulders slumped in relief, settling himself back down upon the bed as carefully as possible, heartbeat still hammering away in his ears. Jim’s furrowed brows relaxed and his breathing evened out after a few minutes of stillness. A remarkably sound sleeper for an internationally wanted criminal. The thought made Sherlock smile.

He rolled carefully onto his side to indulge in watching his new lover sleep. So relaxed, it was fascinating. The typically controlled dark hair stuck up at all angles, a faint brush of stubble peppered his face. Jim looked peaceful, innocent, beautiful. Sherlock’s fingered the sheets closest to the man, afraid that if he touched him, he’d wake him. When he was like this, Jim truly belonged to him. 

“Caught you,” Sherlock sing-songed under his breath with a smile.

“No you haven’t,” Jim’s gravely sleep-thick voice shot back. Dark eyes snapped open freezing Sherlock like a deer in headlights. 

Sherlock blushed, yanking his hand back to himself. “Morning,” he said.

Jim turned his face into the pillow groaning a muffled “Yes it is that.”

Sherlock drank in the sight of Jim’s toned bare shoulders, arms disappearing under the pillow. Seeing that the man wasn’t jumping up and running out the door, he relaxed a little and slid closer to him, daring to reach out and trace the line of Jim’s bicep. “I’m sore,” Sherlock said.

Jim turned his head from the pillow, eyes squinting with sleep in a way which made him look so soft, deceptively harmless. “Well you asked for it,” he said, accent thick as the sleep in his voice. 

Sherlock smiled. “Suppose I did,” he said. He shifted closer, intentionally wiggling to accentuate the soreness in his body, taking pleasure in the reminder of how thoroughly Jim had inducted him the night before. Sherlock curled around Jim, sliding an arm across his waist, planting a kiss on his shoulder. 

Jim scrunched his nose. “Oh you’re not still randy are you?”

Sherlock went still, blinking into Jim’s face with panic. “Is that not normal?”

Jim shook his head, glaring in solemn disapproval. “Don’t be stupid Sherlock. Of course it’s not normal.” The panic in Sherlock began to skyrocket, he jerked his arm away as if he’d burnt himself. 

Jim only managed to hold his serious scowl for another second. Then his face cracked and he burst into peals of laughter. Sherlock’s panic spiraled off-kilter, slow to catch on, blushing furiously. This made the criminal laugh all the harder. He rolled onto his back, continuing to laugh, loud and with abandon in a way Sherlock would find fascinating if he weren’t preoccupied with his own humiliation. 

Understanding dawned on him slowly. When it finally did his cheeks burned with embarrassment. The laughter just continued, annoying now. Sherlock growled, grabbing his pillow and hitting Jim in the face. “It’s not that funny,” he grumbled. His attack ineffective, Sherlock’s protests only served to make Jim’s laughing fit intensify, tears in the corners of his eyes.

When he turned, the sheets had slid to uncover half of Jim’s body, one bare leg stuck out from the snow white fabric, tented slightly from what was clearly the beginning of an erection. Sherlock pouted. Hypocrite. He yanked the sheet away, baring Jim and curling his hands around his cock. “Stop laughing at me,” he said, giving him a few strokes.

Jim quieted, but he was still smiling with devilish delight. “Such an innocent,” the criminal sighed.

 Sherlock slid between Jim’s legs, licking the tip of his cock sullenly. “That wasn’t nice,” he grumbled.

Jim shifted to make himself more comfortable, but didn’t move to stop Sherlock, simply watching the man between his legs with interest. “I’m not a nice man. Is that news to you?”

Sherlock lavished his tongue down the length of Jim’s shaft, sucking one of the man’s balls into his mouth. “No,” he whispered as the glan slipped wetly from his lips. “But you’ll need to be punished.” He sucked the other testicle into his mouth briefly then licked his way back up to the tip before taking Jim’s cock fully into his mouth and sucking, stroking, enjoying the fact that Jim was, for once, not complaining, lecturing, nor pulling away from him. 

Jim tilt his head back, breath coming a little more quickly, eyes slipping shut. “Yeah? What are you going to do detective, spank me?”

Sherlock’s brain ground to a halt, the thought sending electricity through his veins. Jim’s prick slid from his lips and he looked up at him with intrigue. “Can I?”

Jim’s eyes fluttered open. His head snapped down, still blinking a little too rapidly as he struggled to catch up. “Seriously?”

Sherlock swirled his tongue over the head of Jim’s cock, enjoying the fact that those dark eyes were watching him, enjoying the sounds the man was trying not to make. “Yes,” he said, holding his gaze steady.

Jim’s head dropped back onto the pillow with a soft flop. “Sure,” he said. “Why not.”

Sherlock blinked. “Really?”

“Yes,” Jim yawned, stretching his arms out above his head.

Sherlock crawled up Jim’s body, face hovering inches above Jim’s suddenly. “What else?”

“Fuck!” Jim jumped when he opened his eyes to find Sherlock suddenly there. He glanced down at his now neglected erection. “Don’t you have something you were doing?”

“What else,” Sherlock insisted, vibrating with energy.

Jim yawned again, scowling. “What do you mean what else?”

“What else will you let me do,” Sherlock gasped, running his hands over Jim’s chest with wonder. “Can I tie you up?”

Understanding dawning on Jim, he groaned, “Yeah Sherlock whatever.”

“Can I use toys on you?”

Jim started to look bored. “Are you making a list?”

Sherlock cocked his head. “Is that a no?”

Jim groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. “No that’s not a no. Yes you can use toys.”

“Can I dress you up?”

Jim rolled his eyes, then ducked away from the detective, sliding off the bed. “Have a burning desire to fuck me in a french maid outfit, do you?” 

“I don’t know,” Sherlock mused. “I’m just exploring my options.”

“I’ll wear it, but you’ll have to buy it,” Jim mumbled. He walked away, unabashedly nude toward the bathroom. 

Sherlock admired the sight as Jim disappeared down the hallway, waking from his trance only when the man was out of sight. He hopped up, hurrying after him quickly. Jim had just shoved a toothbrush in his mouth when Sherlock swung around the doorframe to halt his steps. “What about … um … adventurous positioning?” 

Jim’s eyes widened a moment at Sherlock’s enthusiasm. He turned back toward the mirror, brushing his teeth and running a hand along the stubble of his cheek. Eventually he spit the toothpaste into the sink. “I don’t care,” he said with the pained look of a parent trying to placate an overly demanding child. “Anything you want.”

Sherlock bit his lip, eyeing Jim as he washed out his toothbrush. “Anything?”

“For god’s sake Sherlock. Yes,” he snarled. “Whatever you want. We can try it.”

Sherlock hesitated, but he couldn’t bring himself not to ask. “Can I take you on a date?”

 Jim stared at Sherlock appalled, then abruptly brushed past him to stalk toward the parlor. “I need coffee for this.”

Sherlock followed undeterred. “You like coffee? I can take you out to coffee.”

Jim held the hotel phone to his ear, eyeing Sherlock as if he had become the most annoying thing on the planet. “Are you still talking?” He turned his back to him as a muffled voice came on the line. “Yes. I’d like lunch brought up. For two. Coffee. Tea.” He paused glancing over his shoulder at Sherlock with reluctance. “Yes,” he sighed. “Sugar and milk.” 

The phone snapped back into place and to Sherlock’s disappointment, Jim was walking away again. He followed on his heels. “Where are you going?” 

Jim whirled on him, livid. “I’m taking a piss. Yes I might take a shower too. No you can’t join me. Now sit down and wait for your lunch!”

Sherlock took a seat in the parlor, pulling his bare legs up to his chest and turning his back to the criminal. He listened to Jim’s footsteps retreat back toward the bathroom, sulking. Didn’t people want their lovers enthusiastic? 

The sound of the shower running was like a slap in the face. Sherlock jumped to his feet huffing. Where were his clothes? Oh. Right. He glanced over to the pile of his clothing from the night before, still dirty. On the brightly lit terrace his robe still fluttered in the breeze, along with part of Jim’s suit. Images from how their clothing ended up in such a state flashed through his mind and he focused with renewed fascination to the fantastic way his body still ached.

Jim had taken rather good care of him last night. And while the man was inexplicably not swooning into his arms, he hadn’t left, was open to more. That was good. It was, wasn’t it? He wished he could ask John for advice. The man had nearly inexhaustible experience with bad dates and would be able to tell Sherlock if this was one or not. He gave up on the clothes, leaving them where they lay and slumping back into his chair. He supposed there was time to coax Jim into accepting more romantic overtures. Pushing him on that account too early was obviously running counter to Sherlock’s plans at the moment. Besides it gave him time to research what people did exactly on real dates. 

A knock at the door broke his reverie and Sherlock jumped up, forgetting his state of undress until he’d opened the door and the butler immediately averted his eyes. Sherlock stood stiffly to the side of the room, pretending, as the staff were, that everything was perfectly normal. The very professional wait staff wheeled lunch to the dining table, set the table, then stacked the uneaten dinner and empty bottles from the night before onto the tray, wheeling it out. “Shall I bring up more wine sir,” the butler asked politely, seemingly unphased by the situation. 

Sherlock waved the man off. “Whatever he ordered last night,” he mumbled, only realizing after the words had left his mouth that he should probably feel more awkward about ordering things on Jim’s tab. 

“Very good sir.” The door closed with a light click and Sherlock was left alone again. He was going to eventually need clothes again. 

Sherlock had just poured himself a cup of tea when Jim emerged with a towel wrapped around his waist. Sherlock did his best to not look disappointed by the strip of fabric, sipping his tea in silence, determined not to further agitate him. Jim opened the covered dish, examining the salmon and light salad fare with approval. He set one dish in front of Sherlock and pulled the other to his seat. After pouring himself a cup of coffee, Jim took a sip and exhaled with pleasure.

Sherlock glanced at the meal in front of him, then up at Jim. Without looking up, Jim simply said, “Eat.” Sherlock smirked, then picked up his fork. They ate together in companionable silence for some time. Each lost in their own thoughts. With anyone else, it would have been awkward, but Jim didn’t chastise Sherlock on his lack of social graces, and Sherlock was surprised to find that Jim’s silence didn’t threaten him. 

They had finished eating when there was another knock at the door. Jim answered it, arching a brow at Sherlock as champagne on ice with fresh glasses was wheeled in. Once alone again Sherlock waved his hand absently and mumbled, “They asked questions. I just said whatever to make them go away.” 

Jim chuckled, picking up the bottle and turning it over in his hand. “You’re an expensive date.”

“Is this a date?” Sherlock approached Jim cautiously, eyeing the shudders that came down over the man’s expression. He was pushing again. He had to stop doing that.

Jim set the bottle down in ice with a chunk. “I don’t care what you call it.”

Sherlock stopped a few inches from the man, slipping a finger under Jim’s towel and pulling it away slowly. He ran his fingers across Jim’s hip, brushing their lips together. “I don’t care what we call it either,” he said. 

He felt Jim’s muscles relax under his fingertips and when he returned the kiss, Sherlock smiled. He slid to his knees, thrilled to see Jim do nothing to stop him, only watch as Sherlock pulled his flaccid cock back into his mouth.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. I'm off to study now.

The way the sunlight fell over the planes of Jim’s body as his back arched off the parlor floor was an image that Sherlock committed to memory forever. He sucked him deep, sliding one hand up Jim’s flat stomach, finding that subconsciously his body began to writhe in tandem with the body below him. He was drunk on the way Jim’s fingers scratched at the floor, on the soft moans Jim tried to hold back, on the way Jim’s body blushed when he was aroused. And there was no doubt of Jim’s arousal. Nor Sherlock’s. 

The effect of Jim’s reaction had made Sherlock harder than he’d ever remembered being. It took every ounce of control to resist holding Jim down and burying himself inside of him to satisfy his overwhelming lust. The closest thing he’d ever wanted before with such urgency was a hit during withdrawal. His jaw beginning to hurt, he pulled away with a wet pop, growling and exploring Jim’s stomach and chest with his mouth as he stroked the man. “Come for me Jim, please,” he whined, finding one of man’s nipples and teasing it ruthlessly with teeth and tongue. 

Jim’s laugh choked off into a gasp. He thrust up into Sherlock’s hand, but gave no sign of being any closer to climax. Sherlock groaned with tension. Jim was toying with him even now? He pulled Jim’s hair, wrenching his head back, mouth agape, which Sherlock promptly took advantage of, inhaling him with his kiss. When he finally came up for air, Sherlock pressed his mouth to Jim’s ear and rumbled, “I need to have you.”

Jim slipped from Sherlock’s hold and managed to flip their positions before he had a chance to realize what was happening. The smaller man straddled him, holding Sherlock’s head pinned to the floor by a fistfull of curls as he slid his arse back, guiding Sherlock’s cock to slide tantalizing along his crevice. “Which is it,” Jim purred, looking down at him with a smile not quite sane. “Do you want to suck me off or fuck me?”

Sherlock moaned, grabbing Jim’s hips and trying to move him to where he really wanted, but Jim only pulled away, keeping every touch a torturous tease. Sherlock hissed with frustration. Someday he was definitely going to tie the man up. The image that sprung to mind, strained, tight muscles and even tighter bounds, did nothing to help elevate the urgency of his need. Sherlock strained against the hold in his hair, a few strands breaking free in Jim’s fist as he tried in vain to reach him. He snorted in frustration, collapsing, desperate. “Please,” he whined.

Sunlight broke at sharp angles along the planes of Jim’s face as he leaned in, sunlight catching one eye, turning it amber. “Please what, Sherlock,” Jim hummed, his breath brushing Sherlock’s lips. 

A stuttering breath caught in Sherlock’s throat, just by the sight of him like this, half in shadow, half in the sun. “Please let me have you Jim,” he whispered, transfixed. “I want to be inside you.” 

The fist in his hair uncurled, fingers threading lightly as Jim’s hand withdrew and he stood, one leg to either side of him, looking down with a smirk. “Come on then,” Jim said, walking toward the bedroom. 

Sherlock blinked. No. Jim had looked perfect in the light there in the parlor. Like a dream. “Why are we moving?”

Jim paused, glancing back at him. “Supplies moron. Am I going to have to teach you how to put on a condom?”

Sherlock scrambled to his feet, hurrying after Jim. He bit his lip, staring at the back of the man’s head for a moment. There Jim went again, taking every opportunity to rub his inexperience into his face. Sherlock the novice. He hated being put on the back foot again. For such a small cute thing, Jim didn’t give up power easily. But when he did, he was gorgeous and it made Sherlock feel incredible. An impulsive thought flickered through Sherlock’s mind. His lips curved into small smile. He grabbed the criminal, throwing him over one shoulder.

“Fucking Twat! I will END YOU!” Jim boomed, squirming violently in Sherlock’s hold as he was carried into the bedroom. 

Stopping at the foot of the bed, Sherlock struggled to keep Jim in his grasp. Teeth sank into his back, but the detective only found the sharp sting of pain endearing. 

“Shush,” he said, giving Jim’s bare arse a hard, audible smack. The sound echoed through the room and jolted the criminal into absolute stillness. Sherlock dropped Jim onto the mattress, watching his slight body bounce against the springs twice before his shocked expression turned into a glare.

“You’re treading dangerous territory,” Jim snarled.

Sherlock snorted. “Oh please. You’ve already killed us both once. A repeat performance would just be tedious.”

“Don’t get cheeky with me Holmes.”

“You said I could,” Sherlock purred, crawling onto the bed and kissing his way up one of Jim’s legs. 

“I never said you could pick me up and carry me off like some conquest.”

Sherlock’s teeth raked across Jim’s inner thigh. “So I can spank you, tie you up, put you in a dress, bend you into a pretzel, and fuck you, but picking you up and carrying you is too far?”

“Yes,” Jim hissed. 

Sherlock locked eyes with Jim as he crawled over his body, diving forward to capture the man’s lips in a soft kiss. “Your pride has strange boundaries,” he said.

“You have no idea,” Jim whispered. 

Sherlock kissed Jim’s neck, then began to nip and suck where his pulse hammered beneath the skin. He reached past him to where the lube and a stack of condoms sat on the nightstand. 

Jim’s breath went shallow, but his dark eyes followed Sherlock’s actions sharply. “You’ll want to warm the gel up between your fingers before you-“

Sherlock grabbed Jim’s head and kissed him, sliding his tongue into the man’s mouth and exploring hungrily, distracting him while he opened the tube with his free hand and prepared the lubricant out of sight. 

When the kiss finally broke, he smirked into Jim’s flush face and hummed, “I was paying attention Jim.” He pushed a single long finger into Jim’s body, holding the man’s gaze as he penetrated him, taking pleasure in way his face flushed, the sharp intake of breath, the way his jaw went lax. Sherlock nibbled Jim’s bottom lip, pushing in a second long finger, humming, “You’ll find I’m a quick study.”

Jim snorted. “Oh I’ve found you to be quick all right.” His smile spread viscously, even as his breath came shallow. “Work on that. It’s only cute for so long.”

“Yes.” Sherlock traced his lips down the line of Jim’s chest and stomach, licking the head of his cock as he stretched his fingers inside the man. “I obviously need more practice.”

“You need more self-control,” Jim said, head tilting back, eyes slipping shut, as Sherlock sucked and fingered him slowly.

“You need less,” Sherlock gasped before swallowing around his member again.

Jim blinked at him, then burst into laugher, the vibrations clenched around Sherlock’s fingers, his cock jerking in his throat. “Oh honey. That’s honestly the first time anyone’s told me that. Be careful what you ask for.” 

Sherlock looked up from between Jim’s legs, curling his fingers up and humming deep. Jim’s back arched, his head falling to the mattress as he gave a ragged little cry. Sherlock added another finger, surprised to find how easily Jim opened to him. He pushed thoughts of Jim’s past lovers from his mind, grabbing a condom and tearing it open with his teeth. 

Jim sat up panting, reaching for it, but Sherlock brushed his hand away. “I can do it,” he said. 

Jim snorted. “Oh you’re a big boy now?”

Sherlock felt his cheeks heat up, his fingers fumbled a moment with the silicone sheathe under Jim’s scrutiny. He took a deep breath, refusing to let the other man unnerve him. On his second attempt he had the thing on properly. Jim slid toward him, planting a hand on Sherlock’s chest and trying to push him onto his back. He was going to try to control this too. Sherlock snatched Jim’s hand, grabbing his hip and tossing him back onto his back. “No,” Sherlock growled, looking down at the dark man with clouded lust, lining himself up. “I want you like this.”

Jim looked up at Sherlock with a mask of boredom, opening his mouth to launch a barbed retort, but Sherlock cut him off by sliding into him fully in one thrust. The only thing to make it past Jim’s lips was a satisfying shallow gasp.

Sherlock remained perfectly still, tracing a finger down the tendon in Jim’s neck. “You’re beautiful Jim. Mind and body.”

Jim blushed, but his mouth formed a snarl, teeth flashing to launch a verbal assault, but Sherlock rolled his hips once, snapping up and cutting him off again, the coming roar melted into a soft sigh. 

Jim’s blush began to travel down his neck and shoulders. Sherlock traced it with wonder. “I love the way you blush,” he said.

Jim turned his face away, blush deepening, spreading down his chest. “Shut up.”

Sherlock held Jim’s jaw, turning his face back up toward him. “No,” he said, thrusting up into him again and watching with fascination the flash of pleasure which darted across the criminal’s countenance. 

“Arrogant prick,” Jim gasped.

“Control-freak,” Sherlock retorted, setting a soft steady rhythm. He nipped at Jim’s ear. “Which is odd given your … anarchist tendencies.”

Jim scoffed, then moaned. “You… obviously know - ah nothing.”

Sherlock pulled Jim closer, keeping the pace of his thrusts steady, deep, intimate. He kissed Jim’s lips, holding his gaze. “I want to know you.” 

“You know too much already,” Jim gasped, body stretching out under Sherlock, thighs parting.

"I thought I knew nothing?" 

"You know enough." 

“Not enough,” Sherlock whispered. His body shivered with the pleasure of being buried inside of him, having him so close, the gentle steady slide of the two of them in tandem, even as their wills clashed. “It will never be enough.”

“Greedy,” Jim gasped softly, eyes slipping shut.

“Always,” Sherlock rumbled low, kissing the space between Jim’s eyebrows, then his mouth, drinking him in, losing himself in the rhythm of their bodies and the slide of their tongues, floating on the moment. The reality of having him was better than any fantasy Sherlock’s mind had contrived. In wonder, he wrapped his fingers around Jim’s cock, stroking him, keeping it slow, in sync with the motion.

It was surprising when Jim’s tension eased, when he began to moan into the kiss. Sherlock slid his fingers through the criminal’s hair, taking the cue to ramp up the speed of his thrusts, pulling more sounds, enthralled by the way Jim surrendered to his pleasure. It was a heady experience to find himself in the position of pleasing Jim Moriarty. He wanted to please him more. Despite his lack of experience, he wanted to become the lover who pleased Jim more than any other. Mentally he knew there was no contest, Jim would have never engaged him if there was someone in his life who could compete with Sherlock intellectually. It seemed reasonable that if he could master the physical aspect, Jim could be his, his alone, undisputed. 

“I can hear you thinking,” Jim whispered, his fingers tracing Sherlock’s face lightly, shattering his thought process with a caress.

“Only about you,” Sherlock gasped, fighting to push out the words as his stomach tingled hot and in need.

“Dangerous,” Jim hummed, back arching as Sherlock changed his angle, pushing deep, pressing his hips firmly against Jim’s arse.

“Hmmm. Yes,” Sherlock whispered, repeating the action. “Like you.” When Jim arched up again, he sucked one of the offered nipples into mouth, teeth clamping, tongue rolling the nub. 

Jim moaned, grip tightening on Sherlock’s arm. “Flatterer.”

“Hardly.”

Sherlock gripped Jim’s hips, grinding them together, dragging them both down into the hanging moment. Jim’s cock was slick with precum now, every stroke of the hand filling the room with the wet sound of it, every thrust with the sound of skin slapping together. It was lewd and animalistic, poised to pull Sherlock over the edge into orgasm. Oddly enough, Jim became more composed in the silence, no closer to climax. That wouldn’t do.

Sherlock pulled Jim’s hair and leaned close, hips snapping at a faster pace. “Look at me,” he said, their noses inches apart.

 Jim’s black eyes snapped open, meeting Sherlock’s with surprise. He glanced away quickly, but Sherlock only tugged his head back into place. “No. I want you present while I’m inside you Jim.”

Jim’s lips quirked into small smirk. “Oh I -mph” Sherlock cut him off with a kiss and thrust harder.

“Don’t talk. Just look at me,” Sherlock said, staring into Jim’s eyes. He wanted more than just sex, he wanted Jim, every piece of him and he couldn’t tolerate any deflection, any shields. Not now.

Jim scowled. “If you think -mph” Sherlock slid his tongue into the criminal’s mouth, swallowing his hiss.

“Just look at me Jim,” Sherlock gasped. “Feel this with me.”

Jim’s eyes were so dark Sherlock felt he was falling into their gravity. Each time Jim tried to look away, Sherlock tugged his hair or turned his face back into place. Every ruffled snarl was cut off with a kiss. It was a struggle keeping the slippery criminal pinned and the crest of his own approaching orgasm at bay, but when Jim’s defiant glare softened and his body began to shudder underneath him, it paid off with unforgettable beauty.

Jim’s eyes watered as his body shook. Sherlock watched alarm flit across his face for a moment, cut off by a jolt of pleasure which pulled a genuine moan from his lips. Sherlock redoubled his efforts, hips thrashing furiously into the man, hand speeding in tandem, all the while keeping their gaze locked as he watched in fascination as Jim Moriarty came apart, body tensing, mouth agape with moans like screams, until he clawed Sherlock’s back and came in his hand. 

It was the sound and sight of that more than anything which pushed Sherlock over, coming hard enough to make him dizzy. He braced himself over Jim, still buried to the hilt while they both panted raggedly, crashing down. That too, was fantastic to watch, Jim sweat slick and flush, panting below against white sheets, disoriented by the afterglow of an orgasm. 

Sherlock licked the cum from his fingers experimentally. The taste was nothing extraordinary, but the knowledge that it was Jim’s made it positively addictive. Sherlock sucked Jim’s cum from his fingers, then leaned down to lick the man’s stomach and chest clean of it.

Jim shivered under him, catching on slowly as to what was taking place. When he did he gasped and Sherlock watched a blush creep across the navel he was lavishing with his tongue. He looked up the plane of Jim’s chest into those drowsy dark eyes with a predatory gleam. “More,” he rumbled.

Jim laughed. “You just had me.”

Sherlock gripped Jim’s arse in his fingers, kneading the muscle. “I’ll have you again,” he said, kissing up the man’s stomach, running his hands adoringly over his body.

Jim sighed, closing his eyes. “You’ve had enough.”

Sherlock worked his way up Jim’s lips, claiming them hard and hungry, crushing the man against him. “It will never be enough,” he said. 

He kissed and caressed Jim with obsession until at last he worked them both up again. He took Jim twice more before they collapsed into exhaustion. Each time, pulling a greater surrender from his one-time nemesis until he had him pliantly clutching the sheets, lips gasping against the mattress. His arse in the air, taking each of Sherlock’s thrusts with wanton moans, he never belonged to him more. Sherlock talked to him when Jim wasn’t looking at him, never giving the man the chance to block him out or pretend he was someone else. He told him he was beautiful, he was brilliant, he was perfect. He said everything, but the one thing he wanted to say most of all. The one word that Jim would never abide.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock woke to the sound of rain against glass and the scent of Jim’s hair. Overnight he’d managed to wrap around the man and hold him captive against his chest while he slept. Blinking blearily, he smiled, pressing his lips against the top of Jim’s head, enjoying the soft brush of dark hair against his face and the soothing rhythm of softer breath against his neck. He’d never felt more content. He needed to keep this, keep him.

 London was gray and half obscured by the morning drizzle. As the fog of sleep sloughed away, he noticed something flapping wetly at the edge of the terrace. He stiffened. It was Jim’s suit jacket. 

Jim groaned in protest when the hold around him squeezed a little too tightly. “Get off of me,” he grumbled, voice thick as he pushed against Sherlock’s chest sleepily.

Sherlock sat upright, staring out the window then down at the groggy criminal. He remembered. Jim had a thing about his clothes. 

Jim rubbed his eyes, yawning. If Sherlock weren’t preoccupied with his impending doom he’d take immense pleasure at how thoroughly ruffled the criminal looked. “I uh…”, he began.

Jim blinked up at him, frowning. “What’s your problem?”

“Coffee,” Sherlock blurted.

Jim’s frown deepened.

 “You like coffee in the morning,” Sherlock said a little too quickly. He jumped up out of bed. “I’ll just go uh - order some.” He edged to the door. “For you.”

Jim sat up, his pale body surrounded by the billowy white duvet, alert now and scanning the detective with suspicion. Sherlock fled the man’s scrutiny like a naughty child.

 Reaching the parlor he danced out onto the terrace, snatching his sopping robe and Jim’s suit from the rain puddles, balling them up together under his arm and slipping back inside. He slid the door shut as carefully as he could to minimize the sound. If he could just get the butler to rush it to the cleaners maybe they could - 

“Is that my jacket,” Jim asked, voice soft and dangerous.

Sherlock spun around, hiding the bundle behind him. Jim stood at the hallway, staring at Sherlock with a dark hollow gaze. 

“It’s your own fault,” Sherlock snapped without thinking. If Jim had wanted to ensure his suit was well cared for, he should have retrieved it himself yesterday.

Jim tilted his head, a predator perplexed at the gall of his prey. “Show me,” he hissed.

Sherlock hesitated, but eventually untangled the jacket from his robe, holding it out to reveal it was now wrinkled as well as soaked through. Jim stared at the offending garment hanging between them with dark intensity for an uncomfortable minute. Then he stalked forward, taking it from Sherlock to give it a closer look over before sighing and tossing it in the trash with an indifferent wet splat. “You were going to order me coffee,” he said dully as he walked away to retrieve his cell phone from the parlor table. 

Sherlock bit his lip. It was a very Mycroft maneuver. That cold disregard in the face of something which must have mattered to him, the ease with which he tossed the cherished item away, the casual order to send Sherlock on some mundane task. The whole thing put Sherlock’s teeth on edge. 

“It’s not my fault,” Sherlock grumbled at the back of Jim’s head. 

Jim typed in a phone number, not bothering to look up. “I didn’t say it was.”

“Then why are you acting this way?”

“What way?”

Sherlock gestured vaguely at the man. “Like this. Are you angry?”

Jim finally glanced up from his phone. “I’m not angry Sherlock. Just disappointed,” he said, tone and body language screaming apathy as he lifted the phone to his ear. He pointed. “Coffee now.”

Sherlock hesitated a moment, running all visual cues he’d ever witnessed in the man through his head. Jim wasn’t the easiest person to read and Sherlock was rubbish at catering to other people’s emotions in general. Apathy. That was good right? Better than angry. He came to the conclusion that everything must be okay, and turned toward the hotel phone. It wasn’t his fault. He’d been trying to do something nice and Jim was the one being weird about it. Even so, he could still make up for it. He’d buy Jim a new suit. That could be fun date. He could watch a tailor take Jim’s measurements, or better yet he could take Jim’s measurements and - 

“Hey Tiger, what are you wearing,” Jim purred behind him.

Sherlock froze in his tracks. 

“What a coincidence, neither am I,” Jim continued. “I need you to fix that for me.”

Sherlock pivoted in place to stare at Jim incredulously. There was only one person Jim could be talking to at the moment and it made his blood go cold.

Jim paced the parlor with leisure, ignoring Sherlock completely. “No… Long Story… Hardly.” Jim laughed. 

Jim laughed? With him? Sherlock stared a hole into Jim, but the criminal never looked up from his clearly enthralling conversation. 

“Just bring me anything,” Jim continued, “No, something casual… Bring something for him too.” He laughed again. “Yes him too. No, nothing so dramatic… His size?” Jim finally turned to look at Sherlock, but only for a moment to look him up and down before returning to his conversation.

 Hearing Jim accurately recite his measurements, deduced in a glance, sent a thrill through Sherlock. It mixed painfully with his insecurity over the way Jim smiled when talking to the man on the phone. Sebastian Moran. 

It felt like a lifetime before Jim finally ended the call. He set the phone down then met Sherlock’s glare calmly. “Yes?”

“Who was that?”

“Don’t pretend to be stupid Sherlock. It’s annoying.”

“The agreement was that you would stop seeing him.” Sherlock straightened to stand a little taller. 

“No,” he said quietly. “The agreement was that I would break it off with my lover.”

“You’re still talking to him. Obviously you haven’t broken it off!”

Jim’s dark eyes turned hard. “I assure you I have. But I’m not going to throw out a business ally just to satisfy some petty entitlement you feel you have toward me.”

“What business? You’re retired.”

“He’s my version of John, Sherlock,” Jim said, a slight smirk at the corner of his lips. “How would you react if someone demanded that you never see him again just so they wouldn’t feel threatened.”

“I’m not threatened,” Sherlock snapped.

“Obviously.”

Sherlock began to pace. “It’s not the same thing anyhow.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve never slept with John.”

Jim snorted. “Not for lack of trying.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means.”

“No I don’t. John and I have never -“

 “Oh don’t be boring,” Jim groaned. “You only haven’t because he’s straight and you’re repressed.”

“That’s not true,” Sherlock growled.

 “Really,” Jim muttered. “Well way to go Johhny-boy. He certainly kept that in the closet.” Jim turned his glittering dark eyes to Sherlock, sharp as knives while he pouted playfully. “Must have made the rejection all the harder for you.”

“You’re wrong,” Sherlock growled. 

Jim just laughed. 

“THIS ISN’T ABOUT JOHN!”

Jim looked up at the ceiling, tapping his bottom lip in feigned thoughtfulness. “Um… I think it is.”

It occurred to Sherlock that he might be treading dangerous territory. Panic sprang quickly in his chest. Was he putting John in danger? Mary and the baby? “Leave him out of this. He’s none of your business.”

 Jim’s shoulders visibly relaxed, even as his eyes stared daggers into Sherlock. “And Sebastian is none of yours.”

Sherlock met Jim’s glare stubbornly for several heavy silent moments, then looked away, defeated. “I don’t want him coming over,” he huffed.

“Too bad,” Jim drawled, meandering past the detective toward the hotel phone and ordering breakfast.

Sherlock stood with his fists clenched tight to his sides. The sound of Jim’s voice, so calm and casual while he ordered their meal, grated against him. Jim either did not understand why this was important to Sherlock or simply didn’t care. He side eyed the man was he mulled over his breakfast choices with the hotel staff on the phone. The latter was most likely. 

What’s more he didn’t quite understand his own feelings in the matter. Was it jealousy? Or insecurity? Or anger? It was something like those feelings, but he couldn’t quite define it. Maybe John would know. Or Molly. Perhaps there was a way he could ask them without mentioning specifics. The idea was as disconcerting as it was appealing. Various scenarios played out in his head as to how he could solicit relationship advice from his normal friends without actually letting them know he was in a relationship. Of sorts. After the first three scenarios imploded on him, he felt uneasy. Things were so much easier when Sherlock had elected to not feel anything at all. In the past he would have pushed it down and been done with it by now. 

Unsure of what the right thing to do in this situation was, he settled on the middle ground. “He can’t stay long,” Sherlock blurted out, startling the maid who was setting fresh towels and bathrobes out on the parlor chair.

Sherlock blinked rapidly. Jim was just there a second ago. “Where’s Jim? Who are you?,” he demanded.

 “Who sir?”

“The man who was just here. Rude. I was talking to him.”

“Oh. The dark hair gentleman.” The maid smiled, smoothing out the robes. “He told me you were having an episode. Said it would be best if I just left you to it and you would come out of it on your own.”

Sherlock turned his head to the sound of the shower starting down the hall. He blinked a few more times and noticed that the tray with breakfast had already arrived. 

“It’s okay sir. My son has epilepsy,” the maid continued. “No need to be embarrassed.”

“I’m not embarrassed. Why would I be embarrassed,” Sherlock snapped. 

The young maid gave him one of those infuriatingly patient and understanding looks that people so often did. “No reason sir. You just be you.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Sherlock sighed with exacerbation. “Inspiring. Don’t you have something else you should be doing now?”

“If you need someone to sit with you a bit or to run out and pick up your medication I can help you with that sir.”

Sherlock stalked to the door, wrenching it open for the woman. “Nope. All under control. Plenty of towels. Thank you, Good bye.”

The maid smiled, pausing in the door frame, eyes darting down then up at Sherlock’s eyes with a light blush. “If you need anything at all sir,” she began.

 Oh for god’s sake.

Sherlock leaned down, gracing the maid with his most congenial fake smile. “I’ll have my boyfriend call you if I do,” he said, closing the door in her face. 

Sherlock’s smile fell into a scowl and he marched toward the washroom, entering without a knock and stalking toward the shower door. Through the glass he could see Jim’s form in silloutte, his face tilted up into the spray. He didn’t so much as flinched at being barged in on. 

Sherlock froze, watching Jim ignore him. It had seemed he had a point to prove when he came in here, but at the sight of the man, he lost what it was. Something about seeing him like this, in a vulnerable moment he remained confident, a quiet man whose presence crackled, with another encroaching upon him he remained isolated. Sharing the same space with a divide between, Sherlock was mesmerized. Heart fluttering with suppressed anxiety, he placed his hand on the glass. 

Jim’s unreadable dark eyes looked up into Sherlock’s face through the fogged glass. They stared at each other through the barrier for a heavy, silent moment.

“Are you coming in,” Jim asked softly.

Sherlock swallowed, pressing his head to the glass door. “May I?”

Jim opened the glass door. Sherlock paused, then entered, sliding in behind the man, afraid to touch him. The water pattered steadily in the silence. Jim ran his fingers through his hair and tilted his face back into the spray. 

Sherlock curled closer to him, running his lips over Jim’s shoulder. “Sorry,” he said.

“For what,” Jim asked, tilting his head back to look at the detective.

“I don’t know exactly. I just know I should be.”

Jim looked down to his feet and snickered. 

Sherlock wrapped an arm cautiously around Jim’s waist, pressing his body close. “You can punish me for it,” he said, nipping lightly at Jim’s ear.

“Never fear angel. I will.”


	12. Chapter 12

Intimacy in the slide of wet skin was a high that he’d never anticipated. Fingers gliding across the contours of the smaller frame, memorizing every dip and angle, it became a slow sort of dance. A new desire, a simpler flavor of connection which had nothing to do with the mental challenge of the man nor the satiation of physical lust, it was only this. To touch him. To be allowed to touch him. 

Jim eyed Sherlock, clearly trying to gauge the other man’s motives. He seemed satisfied with what he saw. He relaxed, returning to the task of bathing, letting the roaming hands on his body explore without comment. Sherlock wondered whether Jim would ever want to touch him like this. If he’d ever feel the same thrill and pleasure and awe at such a simple thing.  

He brushed his lips along the ridge of Jim’s neck. “Where were you born,” he asked.

Jim stiffened, looking back at Sherlock cautiously. “Why do you want to know?”

Sherlock slid his fingers through Jim’s hair, slicking it back from his face. “I just do.”

“Ireland,” Jim said, turning away from him. “Obviously. Deduce the rest if you want to know.”

 Sherlock frowned, but he refused to retreat, kept his touch soft, still roaming. He could feel the muscles under Jim’s skin tensing. “I want you to tell me,” he said, planting a kiss on his shoulder.

 “You mean you can’t deduce it.”

“I could try, but I don’t want to.”

“Don’t want to show off? That’s surprising.”

“Is it? Why?” He slid his hands up Jim’s back and over his shoulders, beginning to massage the large muscles there.

 Jim jerked away and out of his hold, nearly slipping as he stumbled back against the tiles. “Why are you doing that. Stop it.”

Sherlock paused. Jim’s behavior was unendingly perplexing. “I was trying to help. You were getting tense.”

“Of course I’m tense. Stupid questions make me tense.”

Jim’s back was nearly against the white tiled wall. Sherlock took a step forward, careful to give Jim room to evade, even within the enclosed space, if he really wanted to. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind Jim’s ear. “You can ask me something too.”

“Pointless. I already know everything about you.”

Sherlock took another step closer. “Yes. If you find me so distressing, why did you make the effort to learn that information?”

Jim straightened, offended. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“How am I doing that?” Sherlock closed the space between them, tentatively sliding his hand up Jim’s waist. 

Jim’s hard gaze morphed into a lewd smirk. “If you want to fuck me, just get on with it.”

 Sherlock tilted Jim’s chin up and kissed his lips softly. “That’s not what I’m getting at. I just want to talk to you.”

Jim wrinkled his nose, appalled. “Why?”

“I told you why. I want to know you James.”

“Don’t call me James. It sounds weird.”

“No one calls you that?”

“Only my ma-“ He stiffened again. “It doesn’t matter. It just sounds weird when you say it.”

Sherlock’s heart leapt at the slip. It was the first mention, however brief, of Jim’s family. He kept a tight reign on his excitement, Jim was both literally and figuratively slippery at the moment.

“I called you that during your trial,” he said.

 “That was different.”

“How so?” 

“It was formal. This is …” he waved his hand vaguely over Sherlock. “weird.”

“In what way?”

“In a lot of ways. We’re in the shower for one.”

Sherlock chuckled. He wasn’t sure why he found that reasoning adorable. It just was.

“No talking in the shower?” He pressed his forehead against Jim’s. “Is that a rule somewhere?”

Jim snorted, turning his face quickly away from the contact. “Don’t be a prat.”

“I am a prat,” Sherlock said, his fingers sliding down Jim’s sides as he inhaled deeply, appreciating the moment. “Most people find that a highly distressing trait, but you, I believe you enjoy it.”

Jim refused to meet Sherlock’s gaze, but the edge of his lips quirked slightly. “How do you deduce that detective?”

Sherlock nipped lightly at Jim’s ear, gratified to find the man begin to sway into him. “Because you take every opportunity to encourage it.”

Jim looked back up at him, his smile all teeth. Sherlock stopped breathing when Jim leaned up and closed the distance between them, kissing him, his fingers running through wet curls, with what could only be construed as affection. It took a moment for his brain to catch up with the action, but when it did he pulled the criminal closer and returned the kiss, running his palm up Jim’s back, enjoying the feel of warm water and skin slide over his fingers. There was nothing in the world as unreadable and unpredictable as Jim Moriarty. True to his nature, that only made Sherlock want him more. 

The kiss lingered, a slow slide of tongues, hands roaming over each other in tandem as the steam of the shower and the steady beat of warm water wrapped them in this lingering moment. Then the bathroom door barged open, heavy footsteps stormed forward, and a blast of cool air hit them both as the shower door was wrenched open. 

“There you are,” a gruff voice cut in. The rough, square jawed face of Sebastian Moran jutted in, steam billowing around his muscular frame and out through the open bathroom door behind him into the cooler air of the suite beyond. 

Sherlock went rigid with shock. The tension in Jim’s body relaxed under his fingertips.

 “What took you so long,” Jim drawled.

Sherlock blinked rapidly, stunned into silence. Sebastian was here. Sebastian just walked in here. He didn’t knock. He wasn’t let up. There would have been a call from the wait staff. He came in of his own volition. Query: How did he get in? Initial Answer: Break in. Further Analysis: He was expected. There was no point. Secondary Answer: Posed as staff. Further Analysis: Tight tank top and khaki trousers hardly indicative of disguise. Tertiary Answer: He was given a key. Conclusion: He has a key.

“Get out,” Sherlock snapped, interrupting what had clearly been some sort of conversation between the two criminals. Jim looked at Sherlock, frowning slightly, but he ran a hand soothingly up and down his back. 

“Give us a minute Seb,” he said after a moment. 

Sebastian and Sherlock exchanged a brief glare, then the sniper grumbled and stormed out, leaving the bathroom door wide open and a new chill in the air.

“Why did you give him a key,” Sherlock demanded.

Jim continued to stroke his fingers up and down Sherlock’s spine. “If I needed extraction, I didn’t want him raising any alarms.”

“Extraction?” Sherlock searched Jim’s face desperately. Then it hit him. “Oh. You thought this was a trap?”

“I planned five contingencies in case it was.” Jim tilted his head to the side, eyes narrowing as though he were confused by something obvious. “Does that really surprise you?”

Upon reflection Sherlock realized that it really didn’t. Jim’s insistence on meeting at a hotel rather than Baker Street no longer seemed a stubborn power play. It was tactical. He licked his lips. “He’s armed then?”

Jim laughed. “Basher’s always armed.” The criminal leaned up and planted a soft kiss against Sherlocks’ throat. “But don’t worry. He won’t kill you unless I tell him to.”

Sherlock grimaced. “Reassuring.”

Jim scrunched his nose and smacked Sherlock’s arse playfully. “Isn’t it?”

 The criminal turned the shower off and stepped out. Sherlock pouted. He had hoped to wash Jim’s hair. He followed nonetheless, snatching the singular bath towel hanging in the room and wrapping it over his shoulders. Before Jim could make it out of the room, Sherlock grabbed his arm and pulled him back against his chest, enveloping the smaller man in the soft terry cloth with him. Jim looked up at Sherlock with a small smile. “Possessive? It isn’t anything he hasn’t seen before my dear.”

“I don’t care,” Sherlock said, walking with Jim awkwardly out into the suite. Jim shook his head, but went along with it anyway, walking out briskly, forcing Sherlock to stumble behind him to keep up while keeping them both covered. 

When they entered the parlor, they found Moran sprawled across one of the chairs, one leg hanging over the arm, smoking a cigarette. When he looked up from his phone and saw the two men, he snorted a laugh, blowing smoke from his nostrils. “What’s this then? He’s already glued to your hip?”

Jim picked up one of the robes laid out on the couch and after some fussing with Sherlock, managed to put one one. Sherlock stubbornly kept his towel, wrapping it around his waist and plopping down sullenly on the couch next to the other fresh robe. Jim wandered over to the large shopping bag sitting by the door, poking through the contents. “Did you bring everything?”

Sebastian kept his focus locked on Sherlock who only glared back at him stubbornly. “Yeah. Yeah,” he said. “Even brought something for your new friend here.” The blonde took a drag of his cigarette, smirking at the detective. Sherlock wasn’t sure which was worse, Sebastian taunting him with Jim or with nicotine. 

As the sound of rustling plastic filled the air, Sherlock and Sebastian continued their silent standoff. When Sebastian’s gaze broke to rake appraisingly up and down Sherlock’s frame, the detective inhaled deeply, opening his mouth to release a barbed assault when Jim interrupted with a dismayed growl, “What the fuck is this Basher?”

Sherlock shut his mouth and tensed, but Sebastian continued to hold his gaze steady, unperturbed, a small grin tugged at the corner of his stubbled mouth as he took another drag. “What’s that boss,” he said casually, exhaling a billow of smoke into the space between him and the detective.

Jim stormed over to the man and smacked him across the back of his head. “This,” the criminal snarled, holding up a garish green t-shirt sporting the screen print of a clover and the words ‘Kiss me. I’m Irish’. “Where did you even get this?”

Sebastian roared with laughter and Sherlock, after a brief moment, snorted, trying and failing to reign in his smile. Jim fumed, throwing the offending garment into Sebastian’s face. “Aw. Come on. It’s casual. That’s what you wanted.”

Sherlock turned his face to the side, fixing his eyes out the terrace doors to the gray rainy horizon. He pressed his lips tightly together and fought back another laugh with everything he had. 

Jim reeled on him. “Oh you don’t have anything to laugh about honey,” he snarled. He stormed over to the bag, grabbed a large triple x pink t-shirt from the top and hurled it at the detective. It landed with a plop over his head. Sherlock pulled the fabric from his face and held it out to see ‘Daddy’s little princess’ emblazoned in white curling script across the garish pink surface. Sherlock’s smile died on his lips. Sebastian broke into another round of pealing laughter. 

Sherlock folded the shirt stoically and placed it beside him. “You’re playing a dangerous game Moran,” he said softly.

Sebastian wiped a tear from his eye and stubbed his cigarette out in the palm of his hand. “Yeah? How’s that?”

 Jim sighed. “Sherlock -“

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin. “Your jealousy in regards to James has -“

 “Wait. He gets to call you James,” Sebastian said, turning around to balk at Jim who was pressing the bridge of his nose firmly between thumb and forefinger.

“No,” Jim sighed. “Sherlock, you should know that - ”

“You should remember,” Sherlock continued venomously, “that I put you down once before. Do not assume that this arrangement takes away from the fact that both James and I are -“

 “Very dangerous men,” Sebastian interjected, leaning forward with a strange gleam in his bright blue eyes. “Sociopathic geniuses with misguided moral compasses?” He opened his mouth, then closed it. After a brief silence he leaned back, crossing one leg over a knee. “Yeah, I know. Maybe I don’t care? Maybe I’m only allowing this for the thrill of slitting your throat before I steal him back from you.” Sebastian reached out to grab Jim’s wrist, but Sherlock was up and on his feet, pulling Jim into his arms and clutching him against his chest tensed to fight the larger man.

Jim sighed. “Sherlock, you don’t understand, he’s -“

“Make no mistake,” Sherlock snarled at the sniper. “I will kill you. He’s mine.”

Sebastian didn’t move from his seat. He looked at the two of them wrapped around each other appraisingly, a lewd smile on his face. “Jim,” he said, lighting up another cigarette.

Jim shook his head chuckling. “Yeah Basher. This floating your boat yet?”

Sherlock looked from one man to the other, mind whirling with confusion. 

Sebastian exhaled slowly, eyes slipping shut a moment as though savoring the taste. When he opened them again, his expression was one of pure hunger. “There’s two of you. Yeah. I’m in heaven.”

Sherlock’s grip on Jim tightened. “Wait. This is -“

 “This,” Sebastian said, taking another drag then motioning with the cigarette up and down the two men. “Is hot.”

Sherlock went positively rigid. Jim shook his head. “Seb’s got … a certain type. A fetish for-”

"Psychotic boffins," Sebastian finished with a laugh. 

Sherlock stared at Sebastian in complete bafflement. The other man's returning grin was positively feral. “Go on,” Sebastian said, taking another drag. “Kiss him. Fuck him. Show me he’s yours Holmes.”


	13. Chapter 13

For once Sherlock was at a loss for words. He was prepared to be Moran’s rival for Jim’s affections, his enemy. At no point had it occurred to him that he would end up being some sort of fetish for the man.  

Sebastian stalked toward him lazily, a single finger hooked the rim of the towel hanging at Sherlock’s hips. “Nothing to say? It’s not really something you need to look so confused by,” the criminal said, leaning forward.  

Sherlock’s back hit the wall abruptly. He hadn’t realized he’d been backing away from the man and the impact shocked him. Sebastian planted one hand against the wall behind him, his breath ghosted along his throat and his thumb stroked Sherlock’s hip. “Come on Holmes. You must have been curious. If for no other reason than that Jim had me.” 

Sherlock gathered himself and glared at Sebastian. “No. Piss off.” 

Sebastian just laughed. His large hand slid into Sherlock’s hair and yanked his head back. Sherlock threw a punch across the man’s jaw. The blow connected, but Sebastian’s face took the impact as if it had been nothing and continued to advance. Sherlock’s heartbeat hammered in his chest. He snarled as Sebastian held his flailing form, mind racing toward murder. Sebastian seemed to sense it and that only made him all the more keen. 

“Sebby dear,” Jim’s soft voice cut in through the scuffle.  

Sebastian froze, but he held Sherlock pinned against the wall. “Yeah boss?” 

“That’s mine.” 

Sebastian chuckled, releasing Sherlock and strolling back toward the master criminal. “I thought you were his.” 

“Same difference,” Jim said, waving his hand dismissively while he eyed Sherlock’s wide-eyed huddled form. His dark gaze rolled up to his right hand man. “Don’t touch him again.” 

“What if he asks me to,” Sebastian leered. 

Jim’s blank expression didn’t falter. “I’m not playing with you.” 

Sebastian sobered. “Pity,” he said, gazing down at Jim softly.    

Jim broke the shared gaze coldly. “I’ll contact you when I need you again.”  

Sebastian opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it and simply growled. “Fine.” He snatched his jacket from the back of a chair. “I’ll leave you to play with your blushing virgin.”  

The door slammed behind Sebastian as he stormed out. Jim stared after him for a long silent moment. Sherlock remained frozen in shock, heart still hammering as he remained cowed.

Jim sighed, then refocused back to Sherlock. “You okay?”

“You took your time stopping him,” Sherlock snapped. 

“An experiment. I need to gauge how he’s truly reacting to this.”  

Sherlock straightened, finally able to peel himself away from the wall. “Glad to be of service,” he said bitterly.

  Jim approached Sherlock, brushing his fingers up his lean chest. “Behave Sherlock. What you’ve asked of me here influences the equilibrium of my web. I need to understand how it impacts all of the moving parts.”

“What do you see in someone like that?”

Jim just smiled. Instead of answering he simply said, “No charge for the time you have to spend with him.”

It was like a slap in the face. A reminder that Jim considered him a client, not a lover. It must have shown on his face, because Jim pouted up at him playfully. He leaned up and kissed Sherlock’s jaw. “Poor you. How can I make amends?”

Sherlock pounced on the opening. “Let me take you on a proper date,” he said quickly. 

Jim blinked at him in silence, then burst into laughter. “I see you’re not too traumatized after all.”

“Is that a yes?”

Jim pulled away Sherlock’s towel, baring the man. “If that’s what you really want. I suppose I can tolerate the attempt,” he said, eyeing Sherlock’s body hungrily.

Sherlock’s cock immediately twitched with interest under Jim’s gaze, a shiver ran across his skin. Jim noticed. Of course he did. He hovered close by, but didn’t touch him. Just kept raking his eyes over him unabashedly. “Just don’t be boring,” he said, idly.

It surprised Sherlock that his body responded instantly to Jim’s lingering gaze, as if by silent command. He grew hard quickly under the watchful dark eye. The realization that Jim had such power over his own lust made him gasp. Jim finally looked up into his face mischievously. “Be a dear and touch yourself for me Sherlock.”

Sherlock swallowed thickly, breath coming shallow. “I - I don’t know if-,“ he stammered. 

“Please Sherlock. Wrap your fingers around that pretty prick of yours and stroke it,” Jim said slowly, never breaking eye contact. “For me.”

With a shaking hand Sherlock obeyed, a small moan slipping from his lips as the pleasure of the act magnified under the knowledge that Jim was watching, that he wanted it. When Jim finally touched him, his fingers ghosted over Sherlock’s shoulders, barely there. “Good boy,” he purred, making Sherlock’s blood boil hotter. 

“Jim,” he whispered, body shuddering. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. It was intense and heady, doing this, performing for Jim’s amusement. 

Jim slid his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and kissed his forehead. “Yes dear?”

“I want more,” Sherlock whispered.

Jim chuckled. “The story of your life.”

Sherlock whimpered, his wobbling legs beginning to give out. He was already on the verge of coming and the realization made him go red in the face with embarrassment. Jim placed his hand lightly over Sherlock’s, edging him away to take over the task of stroking him. Sherlock’s back found the wall he’d clung to again, but as he sagged against it, he didn’t mind at all. As Jim stroked him at a slow, soothing pace, Sherlock reached out to pull the criminal closer to him. Wrapping his arms around the criminal he clung to him, he rest his chin on Jim’s shoulder, inhaling his scent and losing himself to the pleasure of the man’s touch.

Jim’s free hand slid up to the nape of Sherlock’s neck, stroking the small hairs there. Sherlock knew that Jim was just trying to relax him after the threat of Moran had spun him up, but he didn’t care. Instead he took it as a positive indication that Jim was trying to sooth him at all. He ran his hands freely over Jim’s body, reveling in touch and scent of him, hearing his breath grow ragged, feeling his pulse increase under the flesh, the heat of his skin radiating through the air. With shaking hands, Sherlock parted Jim’s robe, gratified to find the man was just as hard and ready as he was. He slid his palm down, cupping him, then stroking him in turn. Jim’s breath stuttered at the touch, thrilling Sherlock to his core. He cupped Jim’s face and kissed him, breathless.

They hovered in that moment, pleasuring each other, lips brushing, kissing, panting. Growing bolder, Sherlock hooked his arm around Jim’s waist, pulling him closer still. He pressed their erections together and stroked them both, their precum mingling and adding the slide of his hand. Jim’s moan was so soft it nearly sounded like a sigh. He pressed his head to Sherlock’s shoulder and wrapped his arms loosely around him, giving himself over to the detective’s lead. Seeing this change in Jim was a rush. With invigorated passion Sherlock worked his hand cleverly over them both, thirsty for each moan he pulled from the man, until their pleasure began to peak. 

Jim’s grip tightened against his arms, his hips thrust slowly up into Sherlock’s hand, his breath went ragged as he pressed himself against him. “Sherlock,” he whispered, raggedly. 

Oh how that thrilled him. To hear his name whimpered from Jim Moriarty’s lips. He took Jim’s chin in hand and turned his face up, claiming his mouth with consuming hunger. “Come for me Jim,” Sherlock said.

Jim’s eyes widened at the silky baritone command. He cried out and came across Sherlock’s hand then went boneless in his arms. Sherlock held him, stroking himself quickly to bring his own release. He came soundlessly, surprised to find the sight of his ejaculation splattering across Jim’s stomach so gratifying. 

Sherlock slid down the length of the wall until his butt hit the floor, bring Jim down with him. The criminal still clutched against Sherlock’s chest in post-orgasmic lethargy. Sherlock squeezed the man in his arms, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. Eyes slipping shut, a small smile quirked at the edge of his mouth as he listened to the sound of their ragged breathing gradually even out. Jim’s ruffled hair tickled his nose in the most endearing manner. Everything about Jim was endearing at the moment. Sherlock scratched his nose and reflected with amazement over the other man's ability to be erotically compelling whether he was commanding Sherlock or surrendering to him. He knew no one else would be able to satisfy both desires, to take and be taken, quite like Jim could. He was ruined for any other lover. Mind, body, and nature, they were well matched. No one else would ever do.

Jim eventually stirred. “I’m hungry,” he said, uncurling from where he’d pressed himself into Sherlock’s chest. 

Sherlock chuckled at the way the casual mundane comment clashed with the depth of his own thoughts. He twirled a dark strand of Jim’s hair around a finger. “Should I order something brought up or are you willing to let me take you out to a cafe for a late lunch.”

Jim blinked up at him frowning. “That sounds like a date.”

“It is a date,” Sherlock said. “You said I could take you on one.”

Jim pressed his face back into Sherlock’s chest. “Oh. Right,” he groaned. 

“It’s not that bad,” Sherlock said, suddenly fascinated with the curve of Jim’s back. He traced the dip softly, eliciting a shiver from the man in his arms. 

“It’s boring,” Jim grumbled. 

“It doesn’t have to be,” Sherlock said. “Let’s order something up today. I’ll take the time to make sure you aren’t bored when I take you out.”

Jim untangled himself from Sherlock, stretching as he stood. Scratching the back of his head he wandered toward the hotel phone and placed the order. Sherlock remained slumped against the wall, watching Jim’s every movement with fascination. Light spilled into the room through the windows, casting geometric planes of light across Jim’s form. 

Sherlock turned his gaze out toward the London skyline. The rain had broken and the sun hung at a low angle. Evening approached. It was going to be their last night in the hotel. In the morning Jim would leave and this particular rendezvous would come to a close. He tried not to let that thought bother him too much. This was after all just the beginning. He still had plenty of time left with the criminal. Even so, Sherlock never forgot that, at least as far as Jim was concerned, their time together was numbered from the very start. He knew he should accept that and simply enjoy this while it lasted, but he couldn’t just let it end. Finally having Jim only convinced him all the more that he needed him, that he would always need him. No one else would do. It had to be him.

“Hey,” Jim said, cupping a hand over the receiver. “I said, what do you want. Is steak okay?”

Sherlock smiled up at him. “Sure,” he said. 

“How do you take it?”

“Rare,” Sherlock replied, burning the image of Jim bathed in golden late afternoon light into his mind. 

Jim grinned devilishly. “Man after my own heart,” he said, turning his back to place the order.

Sherlock exhaled deeply, satisfaction and yearning mixing strangely in his chest. “Likewise,” he whispered.


	14. Chapter 14

“This is getting dangerously sentimental,” Jim groused, watching Sherlock down the length of his body as he worked one of Jim’s feet between his long fingers.

“Not at all,” Sherlock said, focused on the task at hand, pressing his thumb up and down the central line of tendon under the foot pad. 

“Foot fetish,” Jim asked, playfully wiggling his toes. “You don’t seem the type.”

“It’s not a fetish. I just want to make you feel good,” Sherlock replied, taking three wiggling digits between forefinger and thumb and rubbing up and down the bone. 

“Maybe I don’t like having my foot rubbed,” Jim huffed, flopping back down on the bed and staring at the ceiling. 

“You do.” Sherlock remained singularly focused and completely unperturbed by Jim’s attempts to deflect.

“Okay, I do,” Jim mumbled. “But it’s still disgustingly sentimental.”

“The state of your nails suggests you’re quite accustomed to this sort of treatment,” Sherlock said, pleased with an opportunity to show off for the man. 

“That’s different.”

“I fail to see how.”

“I pay them.” Jim lifted his other foot in the air. “Switch,” he said.

Sherlock smiled, taking the other foot as bid and rubbing deep into the sole. “So if it’s free then its sentimental?”

Jim lifted his head again to frown down at the detective. “It’s not the cost, it’s the intent.”

“And what is my intent?” Sherlock pressed his thumb hard into the center of Jim’s foot, pulling a sigh from the man.

“Hmmm… Something you can’t have,” Jim said softly, turning his head to stare blankly out the hotel window to the city lights beyond.

“Because you’re reluctant to give it to me,” Sherlock replied, keeping his focus on the activity of massaging the flesh under his fingers to keep control over his ricocheting emotions.

“Because the person you want doesn’t exist Sherlock.”

A long silence hung between them after that. Sherlock continued to massage Jim’s foot between his hands, working up his achilles tendon and down to each toe, pondering the implication of the comment. Finally he whispered, “Liar.”

Jim laughed softly. “Yes, that’s essentially the problem”

“I have no problem with that.”

“You think so?”

 “I know so.”

“You don’t know me Sherlock,” Jim said, his voice weary. “Not really.”

“I know enough to know that I want to know more. Why are you finding this difficult?”

Jim sat up, jerking his foot from Sherlock’s grasp and folding leg up against his chest. “You like one of the masks I wore for our little game. You have a crush on a fictional character.”

Sherlock moved closer to Jim, brushing his lips against the other man’s softly. “For a fantasy, you feel rather solid.” Sherlock brushed his fingers down the length of Jim’s surprisingly muscular lean arm.

Jim scoffed and turned his face away. 

Sherlock turned Jim’s face back toward him and kissed his forehead. “You understand me Jim. Better than anyone ever has. Help me understand you.”

Jim snickered. “And what use is that to me?”

Sherlock slid his fingers through Jim’s hair. “You wouldn’t be alone anymore.” 

The criminal’s eyes followed the motion, wary. “I like being alone,” Jim snarled. “That’s how I thrive.”

“No,” Sherlock said, pulling Jim’s stiffened form onto his lap. “That’s how you’ve survived.” He pressed his forehead against Jim’s and sighed. “But it doesn’t have to be that way.”

“Sentiment,” Jim said.

“Yes,” Sherlock hummed, planting a soft kiss on Jim’s lips. “So kill me.”

Jim squirmed in Sherlock’s lap, trying and failing to escape the detective’s grasp. “That can be arranged.”

Sherlock held Jim’s hips in place, determined to keep the man on his lap. He leaned his face into the criminal’s, grinning wolfishly. “Oooh. You promise?” 

Before he could register what had happened, Jim’s elbow connected with Sherlock’s jaw, knocking the detective back against the bed. In the next moment, Jim was straddling his chest, fingers squeezing his neck. “Do not TEST ME,” Jim screamed.

Sherlock coughed weakly against the grip at his throat. It wasn’t a fatal hold, but the tension was not a tease and could turn deadly any second. He forced his body to relax, making no move to defend himself. Jim’s skin was flush, his dark eyes bright and sparked with anger. Sherlock knew that the other man’s behavior was manic at the best of times, but his violence was usually controlled. Seeing Jim lose his temper to the point impulsive violence had its own kind of beauty. He did his best to smirk cheekily. “Fetish,” he asked, arching a brow.

The fingers only tightened in response, Jim’s teeth clenched and bared.

 Not the time for verbal sparring then. Sherlock strained to inhale through his nose as he lifted a single hand to caress the face of his obsession. “Sorry,” he said.

Jim flinched at the touch as if he’d been burnt. He jerked his face away, while tightening his grip further. Breathing was quickly becoming very not boring, but Sherlock kept his expression impassive.

The two of them stared into each other’s eyes, dark fury locked into a cool passivity. It was a game of chicken, a staring contest. Sherlock realized that Jim was too stubborn to lose, which would only drive him to escalate, carrying out his threat to truly choke him, perhaps to death. Sherlock dropped his hand and closed his eyes reluctantly. There was a piece of him which thought it might not be too bad to die under Jim’s hands. There was a sublime kind of intimacy in the idea.

A few moments later, Jim’s fingers relaxed and slipped away, leaving angry red lines across the detective’s pale throat in their wake. Sherlock took a deep welcomed breath as he felt Jim’s weight shift off the bed. He opened his eyes to see Jim’s back retreating from the bedroom. “Don’t go,” he said, slightly hoarse.

 Jim paused, mid-step. Without turning around he said, “I’m not going far. Just give me a minute.” Then closed the bedroom door behind him.

Sherlock bit his lip, torn between his desire to chase after the man and the knowledge that doing so would guarantee that Jim really would never come back. Instead he slid off the bed, rising slowly to his feet, slightly dizzy. He made his way to the large window, planting his forearm across the glass and gazing out at his ghostly reflection superimposed over the dark silhouette of London. This was not how he had hoped his last evening with Jim in this hotel room would end. 

He was about to turn away when he caught sight of Jim’s form on the terrace. He was leaning against the railing, staring out at the same skyline Sherlock had a moment ago. Sherlock’s breath caught at even the glimpse of him. Seeing Jim, in any context, no matter how briefly or obscured, always did things to him. Filled him with fear, with excitement, with uncertainty, with want. What had been thinking? Trying to capture Jim Moriarty in an ordinary courtship was like trying to bottle the wind of a hurricane. Something was lost by the very act of restriction.

Gathering his courage, Sherlock made his way toward the terrace. As silently as possible he slid open the door and padded out into the cold. Without turning around, Jim’s morose soft voice drifted in the air. “I told you to give me a minute.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Sherlock said, fists clenched at his sides. He didn’t really want to do this. He just knew he should. Jim’s head turned slightly in his direction, saying nothing, but clearly listening. “You don’t have to keep entertaining me. I … I … I release you from our deal.”

Jim turned around slowly. He eyed Sherlock with a soft smug expression as he leaned back against the railing, folding his arms across his chest. “Oh? Bored already?”

“No!” Sherlock took a panicked step toward him, but froze. This was the right thing, wasn’t it?

Jim pushed off his support and paced toward Sherlock, circling him. “The little psychopath scared you then? Can’t handle it when things get rough.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Hardly.”

Jim nodded, continuing to circle him. It was an odd parody of their positions on Bart’s roof. “You just finally realized that I’m not really what you want.”

Sherlock couldn’t stand it any longer, he grabbed the man and pushed him against the hotel’s brick wall. “I’m hurting you.”

Jim blinked in surprised, but relaxed easily into the manhandling. He smiled crookedly up into Sherlock’s face, the dark shadows of night made him look positively wraithlike. “You can’t hurt me,” he hissed. “Just admit it Sherlock. Come on. You were curious, but you don’t really want me.”

Sherlock gripped Jim’s hair and pulled his head back to force their eyes to meet. He pressed himself against the smaller man, pushing him harder against the wall at his back. “I want you more than I’ve wanted anything Jim. But I realize that forcing you to accommodate my desires has only pushed you away further.”

“Selfless angel, sacrificing for little old me,” Jim hummed, his smile wolfish and unshaken. It made Sherlock’s heart race. There it was. That playful fire. 

“No. I’m a selfish sociopath. I’m willing to let you free in the hopes that you’ll come back to me on your own terms. That you’ll want to.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ve lost.”

“So I’m a game, am I?”

“That’s what I’ve always been to you,” Sherlock bit back.

Jim considered for a long moment, examining Sherlock’s face with a small smile. A human lie detector at work. After a prolonged silence he simply whispered, “No.”

Sherlock snorted. “If I haven’t been, you’ve certainly done an excellent job hiding the fact.”

“No Sherlock. I do not accept the dissolution of the agreement.”

It was such a startling response that Sherlock immediately dropped his hold of the man and took a few steps back. “Why,” he asked warily.

Jim brushed imaginary dirt from his robe. “You’ll have to figure that out detective. It’s boring if I have to explain everything.”

“You’ve explained nothing at all,” Sherlock growled. 

Jim eyed Sherlock’s clenched fists and smirked. “Oh look. I’ve made you upset,” he mused dryly. He lifted his gaze to Sherlock’s eyes and smiled mischievously. “Shall I call the whole thing off now? Just kidding. I’m leaving you.”

Sherlock’s shackles rose. Jim was making fun of him now. “If you’re trying to imply -“

“I avoid implicating myself in anything darling. Now stop being boring and fetch daddy a glass of wine.”

The change in tone happened so quickly Sherlock had whiplash. He remained frozen to the spot, trying to mentally catch up. Jim examined his nails idly and drawled. “Now Sherlock.”

Sherlock jumped, then numbly turned to obey. Body on auto-pilot while his mind failed to find a neat and orderly way to classify the entire conversation. Somehow he managed to pour the wine and bring it back out to the terrace without spilling it. Jim was back to staring out over the edge when Sherlock rejoined him. He took the glass of wine wordlessly.

Sherlock licked his lips, throat suddenly dry. “If you don’t want to end this agreement… Does that mean that you want me too?”

Jim glanced up, mid-sip, then set the glass down on the flat concrete top of the railing beside him. “Don’t be needy.”

“I am needy,” Sherlock replied, unsure whether he should move closer to Jim or away. “Ask anyone. That won’t change.”

Jim considered Sherlock a moment, then nodded. “Yes. Then perhaps we can take the stink of desperation out of you. It’s unattractive.”

Sherlock flinched at that, but remained calm. “How do you propose to do that?”

“I’m willing to renegotiate the terms of our arrangement.”

Sherlock’s heart sank. “Oh.”

Jim tapped Sherlock’s nose lightly. “Chin up angel. What I’m saying is that I’m amenable to a trial run relationship of the type you seem so keenly interested.”

Every nerve in Sherlock’s body sang to attention. “And the terms?”

“I can call it off at any time.” Jim picked up his wine glass and took another sip.

“Anything else?”

“You can ask, but I don’t have to answer any question I don’t want to.”

“You don’t do that anyway,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Yes. But this time you’ll respect it when I do.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said. “This will still be exclusive? You won’t see anyone else?”

“I won’t sleep with or engage in any type of romantic entanglement with anyone else,” Jim corrected. 

Sherlock nodded. That would have to do. “How often do I get to see you?”

“When we’re both free and amenable. I won’t be on call for you to shag when the mood strikes you. But in exchange I am willing to try a greater degree of intimacy when we do meet, if I’m reading it right that that is what you truly want.”

“Yes,” Sherlock blurted out. He blushed then said a little more calmly. “Yes, that’s what I want James.”

Jim scowled at the name, but let it slide without comment. He held his hand out. Sherlock stared at the outstretched gesture, then slid his hand into the criminals, gripping firmly, then pulling him forward into his arms. The wine glass tipped to the floor with a crash as Sherlock wrapped his arms around the criminal and kissed him. Sherlock couldn't define what it was exactly, but he knew he had been given the opportunity for something he had long ago dismissed as an impossibility. He had a chance for something real. He had hope. He had Jim. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight delay on this chapter. I had food poisoning this weekend. I haven't been that sick to the bone in a long time.

Sherlock dozed wrapped around Jim after an evening of lazy and prolonged sex which left him drained in the best possible way. He’d gone to sleep at peace with the fact that they’d part in the morning, content in Jim’s promise that there was something more to look forward to beyond this moment. It was this very satisfaction which made the pinprick in his arm all the more shocking. He woke with a jolt to find Jim perched at the foot of the bed, fully dressed and scrolling through Sherlock’s phone.

“Shhh,” the criminal cooed, gently pushing Sherlock back down against the mattress. “Don’t fight it honey. You remember this, yeah? One of Adler’s greatest hits.”

“N-No,” Sherlock managed to grunt, before paralysis overtook him and he found himself unable to make much more than a weak gurgle.

Jim set the phone down on his lap. “I know you’re wondering, so I’ll just get it out of the way,” Jim sighed dramatically. “No. I’m not going back on what I said before. I’ll still be your,” he paused to finger quote, “boyfriend.” 

Sherlock exhaled in a soft moan, struggling to keep his hazy thoughts together to piece together why Jim was doing this.

“Exit strategy,” Jim said, as if in answer. “When you wake up check your messages. You did a lousy job on alibi for a three day absence.” Jim stood and stretched. “Ver~y sloppy. I’m disappointed.” 

Jim’s fingers slipped through Sherlock’s hair as his eyes slipped shut, a soft gentle whisper tickled his ear as his consciousness slipped into nothingness. “But don’t worry. Jim will fix it.” A soft kiss pressed to Sherlock’s lips. “Remember. Say anything about me, even a tin~y hint, and you’ll never see me again. I’ll be a ghost darling. And you’ll never catch me.”

…

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?!”

Sherlock cracked open a single eye, lolling his head back to find an angry shouty dark blob looming over him. “Ja -wn,” he slurred, struggling and failing to sit up.

John took Sherlock’s arm and slung it over his shoulder. “Yes. Brilliant deduction. I told you to call me.”

Sherlock’s head lulled to the side as his surroundings came into foggy focus within a blur of motion. John was practically carrying him down the steps of a musty old building. People laying about on mattresses, daylight filtering through boarded windows. Oh. Oh! “D-drugs,” Sherlock choked out, realizing that this was the alibi Jim had set up for him.

“No shit,” John grumbled, shoving another junkie out of his way before kicking open the door to drug den and hauling Sherlock into the light. 

In the next moment he was flopped into the backseat of John’s SUV like a sack of flour. 

“Again,” Mary said as John slid into the seat beside her.

“Worse this time,” John grumbled. 

“Don’t - No tests,” Sherlock struggled to speak.

“We don’t need to take you to Barts, it’s obvious you’re blasted,” John growled.

“John,” Mary said admonishingly. “Go a little easy.” 

“I told him to call me,” John said pointing at the detective lulling in the backseat. “He swore to me, SWORE he wasn’t high.”

Sherlock’s palm hit the glass of the car door with a numb flop.

“Knock it off,” John barked. 

“Wrong way,” Sherlock grumbled, slumping in the seat. “Go to … go to…”

“We can’t take you to Baker Street,” Mary said, her eyes glancing up to meet his in the rear view window. It was a look of pity which set off alarms in Sherlock’s head. “Sorry,” she added.

“Mycroft has already made arrangements,” John added.

“No. NO!” Sherlock punched the seat beneath him weakly.

“Is this really necessary,” Mary asked nervously.

“Trust me Mary, you’ve got to be strong with an addict. He’s only getting worse,” John said nervously. “God knows I haven’t been able to help him.”

“Hate you,” Sherlock snarled petulantly. 

“Well that’s just perfect,” John said. He turned to Mary. “Of course. I’m the one at fault here, am I? He puts himself into a drug stupor and I’m the bad guy.” He ran his fingers roughly over his face and groaned, “It’s Harry all over again.”

“He doesn’t know what he’s saying,” Mary muttered, shooting Sherlock a withering look. 

“Turn around,” Sherlock groaned. “Not going.”

“Maybe we could just let him sober up at home first,” Mary said. “You can talk to him first. Convince him.”

“Nope. No,” John said, shaking his head and settling into his seat and facing forward with his lips set in a grim line. “Sherlock Holmes is going to rehab.”

…

The curtains opened abruptly, casting garish bright sunlight over Sherlock’s eyes. He pulled his blanket over his head and growled as his nurse chirped pleasantly, “Special day today Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock peaked hesitantly over the satin rim of his covers. “Am I being released,” he asked cautiously. 

“Perhaps,” she said, pouring a glass of orange juice and placing it beside a small paper cup of pills on the bedside table. 

Sherlock sat up with interest. “Perhaps? What is the condition?”

“Your cooperation,” Mycroft said primly from the doorway. 

Sherlock’s back stiffened, his eyes shifting to take in his brother’s smug expression as he crossed the threshold and pulled a plastic chair to the bedside.

“I’ve been cooperating,” Sherlock said grimly. “Ask the help.”

The nurse smiled, folding a fresh blanket across the foot of the bed. “He’s been a very good patient,” she said cheerfully, patting Sherlock’s covered toes and adding. “This time.”

Mycroft smiled tightly. “Yes. We’re all so proud. Would you excuse us?”

Sherlock watched the nurse leave reluctantly. When the door snapped shut he sighed, resigning himself to the inevitable. “We’re alone. Out with it.”

Mycroft’s infuriating fake smile dropped instantly. “Where were you?”

“Drug den, obviously,” Sherlock quipped, picking up his orange juice and tossing back his pills. 

“I’m told you didn’t exhibit any withdrawal symptoms,” Mycroft pressed.

Sherlock hummed, “Disappointed that I didn’t suffer more? I’ll try harder next time.”

Mycroft flinched at that, growing quiet for a long moment. “So there will be a next time?”

Sherlock bit his lip. Sometimes Mycroft’s annoyingly persistent interference made him forget all of the reasons Sherlock had given his brother to worry. “Not necessarily,” he said cautiously.

Mycroft nodded, but wouldn’t meet Sherlock’s gaze. “At least the tests show you didn’t have much in your system. We caught it early this time.”

Sherlock blinked at that. So Jim had injected him with an opiate as well. Enough to register a positive blood test. “How did you find me,” Sherlock asked cautiously.

Mycroft straightened and smiled grimly. “The son of some Lord went missing the night before we found you. When he was picked up, one of the officer’s on duty recognized you.”

Sherlock nodded. Likely Jim had a hand in that as well. “So the officer told Graham - “

“Greg,” Mycroft corrected.

Sherlock’s brows furrowed. “Greg. He told you -“

“Yes. And I sent Dr. Watson.”

Sherlock smirked. “Couldn’t be bothered to do the legwork yourself.”

Mycroft smiled back grimly. “Couldn’t bring myself to see you like that again.” He tapped his umbrella against the linoleum floor. “Besides, we both know you respect his opinion of you over mine.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say to that, so he changed the subject. “Did you bring any cigarettes?”

“You’re in rehab.”

“Smoking is allowed in rehab. They have to let us have a little fun.”

Mycroft sighed and produced a single stick from the inner pocket of his jacket. “Just one,” he said, yanking it away from Sherlock’s grasping fingers a moment before handing it over.

Sherlock flipped the cigarette to his lips and leaned forward as his brother lit the tip for him. He exhaled a large billow of smoke into the air and leaned back against his pillows with a sigh. 

“Did you really relapse,” Mycroft asked, standing to pace across the room to open the window. Fresh air billowed in, tossing the stark white curtains in the breeze. Mycroft hovered by the window, a tall silhouette against the morning light. 

“You found me passed out in a drug den with opiates in my system, make a deduction,” Sherlock grumbled, taking another drag.

“Yes,” Mycroft said thoughtfully regarding Sherlock’s form, scanning him constantly. “Obvious.”

Sherlock paused, arching a brow up at his brother. “Why? You think I faked a relapse?”

“Perhaps.”

“No one does that. Why would I do that?”

Mycroft peered out the window, watching the source of a pair of voices walking below the window. “You tell me.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at. What do you think I was doing?”

Mycroft glanced over his shoulder with a grim smile. “I don’t know. Conjuring the devil perhaps.”

Sherlock snorted a laugh and took another deep puff from his cigarette. “Hmph. Wishful thinking.”

Mycroft walked slowly back to his chair. “Honestly yes. I’d rather know you were with him than falling back on old vices.”

“Him?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

Sherlock stubbed out his cigarette in the plastic ash tray on the bedside table. “I thought I was the dumb one.”

“And now you’re deflecting.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically. “For god’s sake. Not this again. What’s got you wrapped around this fantasy?”

Mycroft stood stiffly beside his chair, fingers gripping the handle of his umbrella so hard his knuckles were white. “You had sex the past few days.”

Blood drained from Sherlock’s face, mortification and anger battled in his chest. “And exactly how do you know that,” he asked in a slow measured tone.

“Rape kit. You were unconscious and helpless in a place of ill-repute. I had to be sure.”

“I wasn’t raped,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

“That’s true. The results indicate it was likely consensual. No semen found, so you apparently even used protection. So responsible. Rather unusual for a drug fueled tumble between junkies.”

“It’s none of your business,” Sherlock said with a dismissive wave.

Mycroft resumed his seat with a weary sigh. “Was it him?”

“Did I sleep with a ghost? No,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Then whose the lucky man?”

 Sherlock glared at his brother. “None of your business.”

“Because if it was him -“

“For god’s sake,” Sherlock huffed. “When did you become so fantastical?”

“If it was him,” Mycroft continued leaning forward. “I’d rather you tell me.”

“I’m sure,” Sherlock sighed.

“Because we could capture him,” Mycroft pressed.

 Sherlock laughed. “Oh yes, because my arse would be such tempting bait to a criminal mastermind.”

“And once I had him secured,” Mycroft continued, unfazed. “I would give him to you.”

Every muscle in Sherlock’s body froze. He eyed his brother suspiciously. “What do you mean? You’d /give/ him to me?”

Mycroft’s analytical eye swept over Sherlock’s changed expression, widened a moment, then closed. He leaned back in his chair with a stunned whisper. “So it’s true.”

“What did you mean,” Sherlock hissed.

Mycroft met Sherlock’s harsh gaze levelly. “We both know we’d never be able to hold him in a standard prison. But I could arrange a special sort of house arrest. We have places we could keep him under lock and key. Exclusive. Under the radar. You could see him any time you liked. As often as you liked, for as long as you liked. Only you.”

“Like a bird in a cage,” Sherlock whispered.

“Your bird,” Mycroft replied.

“In your cage,” Sherlock sneered. 

The two brothers stared at each other in a silent stalemate as songbirds chattered beyond the open window. Finally Sherlock asked, “Hardly legal. Why would you offer me this?”

“Greater good,” Mycroft said readily.

“Queen and country.”

 “There’s that, but more importantly it’s for your greater good. When you have him, you don’t look elsewhere for your … “ Mycroft gestured vaguely to the building, “fix.” When Sherlock didn’t answer Mycroft continued, “I can promise you he will be very comfortable in our custody.”

Sherlock bit his lip, lost in thought as he wrestled with his darker nature. “It would be a tempting offer,” he said at last.

“Would be?”

Sherlock looked at his brother levelly. “If he were still alive.”

Mycroft sighed and slumped back into his chair. “I see.”

“Now if you’d be so kind brother mine, I’d like to check out now.”

Mycroft pulled out his phone and pressed Anthea’s contact. “Give it some thought,” he added before the line picked up.

“Just get the car,” Sherlock grumbled, throwing the covers to the side and hopping out of bed.


	16. Chapter 16

The first week Sherlock returned home from rehab he was disappointed that Jim didn’t contact him, but the fact didn’t bother him overly much. By the second week he became rather annoyed. He shot off random texts at all times of day and night to his supposed boyfriend only to grate against the answering silence. By the third week he started to worry. He’d spent a month in rehab, which meant seven weeks without any contact from the man. Anything could have happened in that time.

Mycroft’s offer rang in his ears and for a while he worried that his brother had Jim already in custody and hidden away from him. After a few visits, and several rounds of veiled verbal sparring, it was clear that Mycroft had not yet captured the criminal, though was now resolutely convinced Sherlock was the key to doing so. Sherlock would like to believe that he was beyond the temptation to put Jim in a cage, but the longer he went without contact, the more foolish he felt and the more the idea of always knowing where Jim was began to glisten with some appeal.

A month later, without drugs, a case, or Jim to distract him, the detective was literally climbing the walls in his flat. Mind enflamed by boredom, he slipped Mycroft’s ever watchful tail and made his way back to an old drug haunt he hadn’t used in years. He made his purchase quickly and quietly, slipping his old favorites, heroin and cocaine, into his coat pocket for the trip home. He was stopped on his way out the door by a large man blocking his exit. 

Muscular hands grabbed his coat by the lapels and Sherlock smiled as his body was shoved against the wall. Finally something interesting was happening. He tensed for the inevitable fight as the footsteps of the house denizens clambered down the stairs, pistols raised at the intruder. His assailant clicked the magazine of his semi-automatic pistol and Sherlock took that moment to head-butt his assailant with viscous delight. 

The next instant Sherlock was knocked to the floor and a very large body was sitting on him, pointing his gun at the drug dealers who had gone deathly silent. 

“You don’t know who you’re messing with,” Sherlock ground out between gritted teeth, fists clenched against the filthy hardwoord floor as his mind clicked through a series of dirty countermeasures to his attack. A smack on his arse and deep chuckle brought all thought crashing to the ground.

“Aren’t you scary,” Sebastian laughed.

Sherlock peaked up through his hair to the grinning tan face of the last man on earth he wanted to be sitting on top of him. “Get off,” he growled.

“If only the two of you would let me,” Sebastian sighed and ruffled Sherlock’s hair, the gun in his hand never wavering from its locked position on the frozen drug addicts and dealers, who now seemed ready to piss themselves on the stairs. Finally he turned his attention to the men, intense and silently daring one of them to move. “You know who I am?”

A few of them nodded.

Sebastian jerked his thumb toward Sherlock. “Good. Then I trust there’s no trouble if I take him?”

Armed hands raised, heads shook, and the gang of would be brawlers silently retreated like a frightened pack of dogs. Once they were alone Sebastian stood up, yanking Sherlock up to his feet by his coat collar and fishing his latest drug purchase from his pocket.

“Petty theft now Moran,” Sherlock glared as watched the sniper slip his drugs into his pants pocket.

“That’s ungrateful,” Sebastian sniffed.

“Ungrateful?”

“I could have let you take that shit,” Sebastian said, taking Sherlock’s arm and forcefully escorting him out of the building.

“That was the point idiot,” Sherlock snarled, arching a brow at the waiting dark sedan parked outside. 

“You’re the one trying to kill brain cells and I’m the idiot,” Sebastian laughed. “He won’t touch you if you’d have taken that stuff. You do realize that, don’t you?”

Sherlock’s heart hammered in his chest, but he swallowed back his excitement to ask with feigned nonchalance, “Oh? I was unaware that he had an opinion on the matter. Are you taking me somewhere he’ll give me a good talking to?” He paused only a moment when Sebastian opened the passenger door for him, then slipped inside to buckle himself into the leather seat.

Sebastian drove in infuriating silence for several miles before he finally answered, “He’s out of the country.”

“Then what am I doing in your car,” Sherlock snarled.

Sebastian grinned at Sherlock as if he were the most adorable rabid kitten ever. “Going home.”

Sherlock sank into his seat, crossing his arms. “Give me my drugs.”

“Nope.”

“If he’s not here, what does he care what I do?”

“Want me to tell him what you’ve been up to then?”

Sherlock huffed. “What’s he going to do about it?”

“It’s what he won’t do that you should be worried about.”

Sherlock watched the world pass by his window for a silent moment before asking. “You’re saying he won’t sleep with me. So what? He’s not sleeping with me now anyway.”

“I’m saying that he won’t visit you at all.” Sherlock glared at the sniper who just shrugged. “Don’t get mad at me. He likes his toys clean.”

Finally Sherlock composed himself. “I am clean,” he grumbled at last. “I got tested like he asked me to. If he’s so keen to keep me that way, tell him I better see him soon.”

Sebastian burst into laughter at that. “Or what,” he teased.

Sherlock flushed, straightening in his seat. “Or I’ll look elsewhere for my distractions.”

“Fine by me. You give up on him, he’ll give up on you, and when he gets bored I’ll have a brilliant little madman scratching my back like a hellcat again. Sounds like a plan.”

Sherlock bristled, the image of Jim under Sebastian blazing through his mind’s eye unbidden. “Fuck you,” he snarled.

Sebastian smirked. “That’s fine by me too,” he said, “But you’ll need to loosen up a bit. I’m not as patient as Jim.”

Sherlock’s blush felt like it ran straight to his bones. He crossed his arms across his chest and pretended for all the world like he didn’t understand the conversation. “Why is he out of the country anyway?”

“He’s toying with a detective in France.”

Heat shot through Sherlock’s body and exploded from his mouth. “He Can’t do That!”

Sebastian frowned in what appeared to be genuine perplexity. “Why not?”

Sherlock was trembling with anger, fists clenched, knuckles white. “He’s retired,” he muttered, trying to reign himself in.

“Yeah. He still likes to dabble for fun when he’s bored.”

“Bored,” Sherlock snapped. “Why is he bored? He’s got me.”

“You were in rehab.”

“I’m OUT NOW!”

Sebastian flinched back, then shook his head in bemused bewilderment. “Ye-ah. And look at what a load of fun you are. Seriously mate, relax.”

“He’s cheating on me. How can I relax,” Sherlock grumbled.

“When I said toying with a detective in France, I didn’t mean in the carnal sense.”

“I know,” Sherlock huffed.

“Then what are you upset about?”

“He’s playing the game with someone else.”

“Do you want the game or do you want him?”

“Both,” Sherlock sulked.

Sebastian just laughed and shook his head. “You're as mad as he is.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Sherlock sneered.

“Trust me,” the sniper said with a white-toothed grin. “I’m not disappointed.”

Sherlock cast a wary eye at the man. “You can’t be really okay with this.”

“With what?”

“Me and Jim. I took him from you. You don’t have to pretend that you like me.”

Sebastian glanced at Sherlock as if offended. “I don’t pretend to like people.”

“Yes you do.”

Sebastian shrugged. “Okay, but that’s just until I can get a clean killshot.”

“Is that what you’re doing now? Waiting for the killshot?”

Sebastian’s eyed Sherlock lewdly. “If I said yes, would that get you all hot and bothered detective?”

Sherlock’s mouth gaped open, unable to form words. Sebastian grinned, pulled the car to the side of the road, then yanked Sherlock forward to steal a quick kiss from his fumbling lips. Sherlock froze at the contact of soft lips and scratchy stubble, pushing the sniper back with a growl when his mind finally caught up. “You’re touching his things,” Sherlock whispered, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. 

Sebastian smiled at his small victory. “I touch all sorts of his things Sherlock,” he said, watching the detective fluster with smug satisfaction. “If you were agreeable to it, he’d let me touch you too.”

Sherlock continued to wipe his mouth longer than was necessary. “I’m not agreeable to it,” he said, glaring at the man.

Sebastian shrugged and put the car back into gear. “You’re loss. If you ever change your mind, do let me know.”

The rest of the car ride was made in silence. When they pulled up to 221B, Sherlock exited the car and fled up the stairs to his flat. He didn’t leave it for two weeks. 

In that time John and Mary came to visit every few days. Lestrade brought a boring case which Sherlock managed to solve in under five minutes after glancing through the crime photos. Molly brought Sherlock a few body parts to experiment with. Even Janine came by for a visit, just to check up on him. Life took on its boring routine and Sherlock began to suspect that he’d never see Jim again. He was still wrestling with making peace with that idea when one evening a perplexed looking cabbie came up the stairs. “Cab for Sherlock Holmes,” he said.

Sherlock glanced at the man from his laptop. His build, dress, and accent reminiscent of the cabbie who had first introduced Sherlock to the name Moriarty. “I didn’t order a cab,” he said cautiously.

The cabbie checked his notes. “Was told you’d say that. I’m supposed to tell you that it doesn’t mean you don’t need one.”

Sherlock smiled. He jumped up, grabbed his coat, and practically ran down the stairs. “Best not be late then”.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay on this chapter everyone. I had mid-terms last week and that ate my whole life.  
> Back on our weekly schedule (until final's week).

Sherlock was brought to a rather nondescript middle-upper class neighborhood on the outskirts of London. Tight rows of townhouses lined both sides of a dark street which was eerily empty. The cabbie pulled up to the only house with a lit porch light and pointed to the door. When Sherlock removed his wallet to pay the fair, the cabbie refused, informing him he’d already been paid. The flush of anticipation tinged with nervous fear on the man’s face told Sherlock two things. The cabbie had been paid very well indeed and had recently been pulled into Jim’s web. A new recruit then. Odd for a retired criminal. 

Once the tail lights of cab were out of sight, Sherlock glanced around the streets nervously. It looked like the type of neighborhood where little old ladies peered through curtains and neighbors kept track of each other’s doings. Hardly the place for anyone to keep a low profile.  
 Yet as Sherlock approached the door, the stillness of the street tickled the back of his mind. He turned on the doorstep and took another look. First down one side of the street and then the other. Flowerboxes were well kept, picket fences cleanly maintained, but not a curtain rustled, no dogs barked, no motion at all. He smiled. Like the set of a film, the lights were on, but no one was home. It was the perfect mimicry of normality. The most dangerous criminal mind in the world hiding in plain sight. Jim owned the whole street. Brilliant. 

At the realization, the rush of pride, the fluttering excitement at seeing the man behind such a mind again, took him by surprise. He turned slowly back to the door and examined the pristine brass door knob. A thin barrier between him and the only other person he’d ever met whose mind was in sync with his own. He knew before he reached for it that the door wasn’t locked. The turn of the knob, the effortless swing of the door, crossing the threshold into the brightly lit corridor, every step of freely entering Jim’s domain thrilled him. He locked the door behind him, removed his coat then hung it on the empty coat stand just by the foot of the steps. 

“You’ve made yourself at home,” Jim’s voice drawled behind him.

Sherlock smiled, turning to see Jim standing not far behind him, elegant still with his bare feet, jeans, and crisp white t-shirt which clung to his chest pleasantly. “I was invited,” Sherlock said, not bothering to hide his appreciation of Jim’s form. 

“Most people knock,” Jim said, scrutinizing Sherlock’s face with caution.

Sherlock just smirked. “Don’t steal my material.”

Jim shrugged brushing Sherlock’s arm as he passed by him. “Don’t steal mine.”

Sherlock turned on his heels and immediately pulled Jim into his arms, pressing him close and burying his nose in the man’s hair. “I missed you,” he said.

Jim was absolutely stiff in his embrace. “Yes. I heard how much,” he said stoically. “Didn’t take you long to look for another hit.”

Sherlock straightened his spine and huffed, “Rather hypocritical for you to be upset, considering you’re the one that gave me my last one.”

“Not enough to get you high. Just to register a positive.” Jim pushed out of Sherlock’s embrace like a wild animal recoiling from human touch.

“Taking the moral high ground doesn’t suit you,” Sherlock said, watching Jim retreat with disappointment. 

Jim laughed and shook his head bitterly as he circled the detective, just out of reach. “Oh morality has nothing to do with it honey. I just don’t like my property treated disrespectfully.”

Possessive? That was…amusing. “Your property? Is that what I am now?”

Jim grinned devilishly. “Am I wrong? Well, there’s the door sexy. On your way.”

Sherlock scowled. Maybe not then. “Why is everything a zero sum game with you?”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, closing his eyes. Yes a seductively brilliant mind, which the great Sherlock Holmes was unable to ever pin down. How he loved and hated that. It was a mystery to him that the thought patterns of another could be so gorgeously fascinating and infuriatingly contrary at the same time. 

Two seconds in the door and they were already fighting. Why were they fighting? Jim started it. No. That’s the result, what’s the cause? Jim is upset. Obviously. But he’s the one that disappeared for two months, why should he be upset? Irrelevant. He is unhappy about something, or scared of something. Oh! He’s not fighting, he’s trying to push him away. He opened his eyes at last, then slid up to Jim, cupping his face in his hand and kissing his frowning lips. “Sorry,” he whispered. 

“For what,” Jim asked, arching a brow.

“I didn’t realize my hobbies upset you. So I will avoid doing so in the future.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that,” Sherlock said, wrapping an arm hesitantly around Jim’s waist. 

Jim looked away, humming absently. “It doesn’t upset me. You’re just boring when you’re a chemically induced idiot.”

Undeterred, Sherlock pulled Jim closer, inhaling his scent and nipping lightly at the pulse point of his neck. “Then I’ll endeavor to be on my best behavior.”

“Hmmm… I hope not.” Jim swayed lightly in his arms. His chin lifted and he opened himself to the exploration of Sherlock’s lips on his throat. In the next moment he shrugged the attention off and slipped away again, heading deeper into the house. 

Sherlock followed silently, eyes locked on the light gait of the criminal’s steps as they entered a brightly lit kitchen. Jim’s mood was better now. Like a switch. That was probably good. Normal. For him anyway. Jim pulled a wine bottle from a top cabinet and opened it, sniffing lightly at the red stained tip of the cork.

“Wine again,” Sherlock asked. “You don’t have a problem we should talk about, do you?” When Jim’s only response was to shoot Sherlock an annoyed glare, the detective raised his hands in surrender. “I thought we were on the subject of substance abuse.”

Jim frowned at him for a pregnant moment, then poured out two glasses from the bottle and handed one to Sherlock. “I never drink enough to get drunk.”

An image of Jim, flush faced and sloppy drunk flashed through Sherlock’s mind and he blushed when he realized how adorable, how appealingly vulnerable the criminal would be in such a state. “Pity,” he said before he could censor the thought.

Jim smirked, taking a sip from his glass. “Oh? You want to see me trashed do you?”

“No,” Sherlock said, his throat going dry. He took a large gulp from his own glass. “I want to see you helpless.”

Jim licked his lips and gave Sherlock a slow look over. “Kinky.”

Sherlock blushed and drained the rest of his wine. He set the empty glass down on the counter a little harder than he intended. The ringing sound of crystal against granite made Sherlock jump nervously. “Sorry,” he said.

Jim tilted his head curiously. “Still having trouble owning your desires, then?”

“It’s not that.”  

“Oh, it is,” Jim said, walking toward him slowly. “You want to be the noble hero, even when no one is here to judge you.”

Sherlock snorted. “I’m a sociopath, not a hero.”

Jim slid his fingers up Sherlock’s chest, nimble fingers working open the buttons, one by one. “You’re a narcissist, with a hero complex.”

Sherlock grabbed Jim’s hands and whispered, “Says the man who revels in playing the supervillian.”

Jim tsked lightly, pulling his hands free and pushing Sherlock’s shirt down his shoulders to the floor. “We’re talking about you. Specifically your inability to take what you want.”

Sherlock grabbed Jim’s hips and pushed him against the kitchen counter. “I took you.”

Jim grinned at him. “Yes. And you’re still ashamed of it.”

Sherlock gripped Jim’s hair and pulled his head back, pressing his weight into the man. “I’m not ashamed.”

“You are,” Jim whispered, unphased as he slowly looked Sherlock up and down, as if daring him to do more. “Otherwise you wouldn’t apologize for wanting me at your mercy.”

Sherlock took a shaky breath, sliding a hand under Jim’s shirt, up his warm chest, then down to rub his palm along the hard heat under the jean fabric of his crotch. “I would think you’d be opposed to being at … anyone’s … mercy.”

Jim watched the path of Sherlock’s hand as it roamed, then lifted his gaze slowly to meet the detective’s. “You aren’t just anyone. I told you before, you can do anything you want to me.”

The corner of Sherlock’s lips quirked up for an instant and Jim’s eyes widened. “No, no, no,” he started, cut off when Sherlock scooped the man up and carried him bridal style in his arms up the stairs.

Jim sighed and let his head flop against Sherlock’s chest. “You’re an utter arse,” he grumbled, but didn’t resist being carried this time.

“You said I could do anything,” Sherlock retorted, turning into an open room that his understanding of the floorspace of such a townhouse should be the master bedroom only to find himself in a large study lined with books. His mouth opened in awe, his arms faltered, nearly dropping the man in his arms. 

A thousand deductions flooded through his mind from the cluttered array before him. Older computers wired together on a metal shelf. Books, so many books. A map of Shanghai on the wall, with threads pinned to various locations, a crime pattern in the planning perhaps. A telescope pointed out the window toward the sky. Electronics heaped in piles. A well worn plush chair. And dust. Dust thick on high shelves, scraped where books had been removed and replaced. Five years, no six, worth of dust and of living.

Jim waved a hand in front of his face. Sherlock blinked, surprised to find the man standing in front of him. When had he escaped his hold? 

“What? Never seen a study before,” Jim teased with a crooked smile. 

“You really live here,” Sherlock whispered.

Jim tilted his head curiously. “Off and on.”

Sherlock wandered toward the bookshelf, eyes scanning the titles as he ran his fingers along the edge. The dust collected on the pads, little bits of Jim. “It’s not a bolt hole or front. You didn’t just buy this last week. You brought me to a real place. A real place for you.”

Jim’s brows furrowed. “So what?”

Sherlock grabbed Jim and pulled him against him, grabbing his face in both hands and kissing him with an unquenchable fire. “Thank you,” he whispered, kissing him again. “Thank you. Thank you.” He backed Jim against his bookshelf, devouring his mouth and whispering frantically, tugging impatiently at the criminal’s clothes.

Jim laughed, making intermittent attempts at breaking free from the bombardment to catch a breath. “What are you going on about,” he chuckled.

“You brought me home.”

“It’s just a place.”

 “Your place.”

“You’re insane,” Jim giggled, a touch on the side of manic.

Sherlock just hummed in agreement and pushed Jim against the shelves, jostling the books and various items on their perch. His hands roamed hungrily over Jim’s body, ripping the thin t-shirt from his chest, fumbling with his jeans, desperate to have the man now, here, in this place he’d spent so much time, planning his chaos, planning the game.

Their mouths clashed and their fingers scraped across skin, the two of them pulled down to the floor by the rush of their impatience. Sherlock shoved Jim aggressively back as he ripped his jeans free, finally baring him for his greedy eyes. The move shoved Jim’s back against the bookcase, rattling various items perched there. A detonator fell from the top shelf to the floor beside them. Sherlock groaned at the reminder and immediately buried his head between Jim’s bent legs, swallowing his hard length to the root in one go and pulling a satisfying hiss of surprise from the man.

 Jim gasped, leaning over to wrap both arms around Sherlock’s head as it bobbed against his stomach, slurping and sucking his cock with shameless enthusiasm. He laughed nervously when his breath caught up with him, sliding through Sherlock’s hair and giving it a light tug. When this neither persuaded Sherlock to stop or slow down, Jim’s breath stuttered and he tugged harder. “Sherlock,” he groaned.

In response, Sherlock pushed Jim onto his back, pulled his legs further apart and sucked him harder and faster. Jim’s hips canted off the floor, his breath going shallow. “Wa-wait,” the criminal whimpered.

Sherlock hummed a deep question around the length down his throat and Jim screamed, clawing the floor, back arching as he came hard and thick. Without missing a beat, Sherlock swallowed him down, continuing to tongue and lap the softening length clean as Jim trembled, sprawled out on the floor before him.

 Jim was still panting raggedly, dazed and flush when Sherlock crawled over his body, caging him with his limbs. He turned his head to claim his mouth, sharing the taste of him. When the kiss finally broke, Sherlock smirked and whispered, “That was fast.”

Jim licked his lips and regarded him with an analytical look muted by a sheen of desire. “Shut up.”

Sherlock grinned wildly, leaning down to brush his lips in a hot pant across Jim’s. “Make me,” he whispered.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another smut chapter. Because smut is fun.

When Sherlock followed Jim to his bedroom, he was gratified to find the small room messy, the bed unmade, and a general state of disorder which mirrored his own room at Baker Street. Jim slid onto the white sheets, gesturing for Sherlock to follow with the crook of a finger and lopsided smile.

Sherlock crawled onto the bed, moving cautiously toward Jim, feeling embarrassed by the wave of sentiment he felt then. “I did miss you.”

Jim smirked up at him, stretching his arms above his head across the sheets in lazy contentment. “Of course you did.”

“It’s comforting to find that you’re still a humble man.” Sherlock ran his hands up Jim’s thighs, a featherlight caress under the pads of his fingers. “You didn’t let anyone else touch you, did you?”

Jim rolled his eyes. “Comforting to find that you’re still a secure man.”

Sherlock met Jim’s eyes with sincere intensity. “Jim.”

The criminal sighed. “No. I’m all saved up for the gratification of your possessive neurosis.”

Sherlock unfastened his belt, feeling a bit under the spotlight as Jim watched him remove it with unmistakable interest. He swallowed down his his embarrassment and continued casually. “It’s been two months. Are you accustomed to going this long without sex?”

“No.” Jim sat up, running his hands down Sherlock’s torso as the detective fumbled an attempt at gracefully removing his socks and shoes. 

“Did you touch yourself?”

Jim arched a brow and smiled with smug bemusement. “Are you interrogating me or trying to talk dirty to me?”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed, genuinely perplexed. “How is asking about your masturbation habits in my absence dirty?”

Jim sighed. “Sometimes it feels like I’m with a gangly teenager.”

Sherlock stiffened, his lips curled in a snarl. “Sorry to be such a - mphf” 

Jim cut him off with a rough kiss, snatching a fistful of Sherlock’s hair and crashing their mouths together, diffusing Sherlock’s rising temper in an instant. Clambering on top of the taller man, Jim pushed Sherlock onto his back, following his fall by continuing to ravage his mouth. 

“Yes,” Jim whispered against his lips, teeth raking his skin, just short of a bite. “I jerked off nightly thinking about all the awful things I want to do to you.”

It was difficult to know how to take that hushed confession. In the end it didn’t matter. Whether threat or promise, it thrilled Sherlock straight to his core. He kissed back, reveling in the flood of Jim’s lust. Jim wanted him, wanted him now, wanted him back. He fumbled clumsily to remove his trousers, unable to get them off fast enough. He growled with frustration as his legs became tangled up in the hastily pushed down fabric and Jim moved to suck against his throat.

 “Calm down,” Jim said, nipping at Sherlock’s ear then reaching down to help the man shed the last of his clothing. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Sherlock panted looking up into Jim’s face with dazed lust. He gasped as Jim’s hand finally wrapped around his prick and began to stroke him slowly. “I got tested,” he groaned.

“Yes. I saw the attachment and four texts you sent bragging about it.”

“I wasn’t bragging,” Sherlock said, his voice pitching into a whine as Jim nipped down his stomach.

“Yes you were.”

 “I wasn’t.”

 “Do you want to fight or fuck,” Jim hummed, hovering inches from the tip of Sherlock’s prick to look up the length of his chest and meet the detective’s eyes.

“Can’t we do both,” Sherlock asked, exhaling a stuttering breath with a slight smile.

“Brat,” Jim snorted, darting out his tongue to quickly lick the tip of his cock. A cruel tease.

Sherlock shifted, choking back a groan. “I’m clean. So you don’t have to wear anything.”

Jim smirked, dark eyes lighting up with mirth. “Oh? Wear what?”

“You know what I’m implying.”

 Jim’s grin was all teeth. “Don’t imply. Say it.”

Sherlock shivered. He bit his lip, mortified to feel a blush creep up his neck, even more so to see the glint in Jim’s eye when he most definitely noticed. Sometimes he felt like a teenager when he was with Jim. “I want you to ejaculate inside me,” he mumbled.

“So clinical Mr. Holmes,” Jim chuckled, sliding his palm up the plane of Sherlock’s stomach, making the muscles under the skin quiver. “Does that make it less embarrassing for you?”

“It doesn’t matter how I say it.”

“It doesn’t?” Jim curled over Sherlock, threading his fingers through his hair and kissing his throat. “Want to try an experiment,” the criminal cooed.

Sherlock shuddered as Jim teased one of his nipples between finger and thumb. “What kind of experiment,” he asked shakily.

“Repeat after me,” Jim breathed hot and hushed into Sherlock’s ear. “Please Jim, I want to feel your cock inside me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and repeated dully, “Please Jim. I want to feel your cock inside me.”

 Jim licked the pulse point behind Sherlock’s ear. “Fuck me Jim, make me scream. I need you to mark me, fill me up until your cum leaks out of my tight arse and drips down my thighs. Show me I belong to you now.”

Sherlock’s began to repeat the words, but his breath caught in his throat, a shudder rolled through his frame and gooseflesh erupted down his skin. The ripple of adrenaline peaked his nipples under Jim’s fingers. He gave them a victorious tug, pulling out a moan.

 “Say it Sherlock,” Jim teased, his voice lilting playfully. “You won’t get what you want if you don’t ask for it.” 

“Please Jim,” Sherlock whined, his cock straining under its own weight, his body tense and wanting. 

“Please what Sherlock,” Jim growled.

“F-fuck me,” he whimpered, mind going fuzzy. “Make me, make me…mark me. I need you. Cum in me. Again and again. Show me I’m yours.” The mattress dipped as Jim moved from the bed. Sherlock sat bolt upright in alarm. “I said it. Please.”  

Jim shushed him as he opened a drawer on the bedside table. “Yes. Close enough. Good boy,” he said, rifling through the contents and producing a small leather strap and a bottle of lubricant. “Did you enjoy that?”

Sherlock licked his lips and eyed Jim eagerly. “Yes,” he whispered. “Do you want me James?”

 “I told you before, no one is allowed to call me that.”

“I am,” Sherlock said, pulling himself up to his knees, muscles taut in anticipation for the man to come back within range of touching.

“Why’s that?”

“Because I’m me,” Sherlock said.

Jim laughed.

 “And I’m you,” he added and Jim stopped laughing. 

“Narcissist,” Jim hummed, approaching slowly and reaching out a hand to stroke Sherlock’s heavily leaking cock. 

Sherlock’s head lolled back, his mouth falling open, shallow breaths puffing through his nose as he simply held himself open to Jim’s touch. “Do you,” he whispered.

“It’s hard not to want you when you’re being so adorably wanton Sherlock.” Jim leaned forward to dip his tongue into Sherlock’s open mouth as he slipped the leather strap around the base of his balls, snapping it tightly into place. He circled his thumb around the wet head of his straining member. “Just look at the state you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“What are you going to do?” The pressure on the root of his cock felt strange and Sherlock whined a little in frustrated discomfort.

 Jim chuckled. “You know what I’m going to do.”

“Say it.”

“You just want to hear me talk. Is that it?”

“Yes.”

Jim tilted Sherlock’s chin up and kissed him with surprising gentleness. “I’m going to take what’s mine,” he said at last, a dark glint in his eyes. “I’m going to have you.”

Sherlock shivered, but he wanted more. He pulled Jim toward him. “More,” he said.

Jim tsked, pushing Sherlock back. “On your stomach.”

Sherlock frowned. “I like seeing you.”

Jim kissed him again. “I promise you’ll like what I’m going to do to you more.”

Sherlock glanced back at the mattress behind him skeptically then back at Jim. Finally he bit his lip and obeyed, stretching out on his stomach. He felt the bed shift as Jim moved behind him. 

A loud smack and the sharp bloom of a stinging strike fell across one of his cheeks. Sherlock jerked in surprise. “Arse in the air,” Jim said. 

Sherlock frowned back over his shoulder at Jim who returned the look with a blank unreadable expression. Sherlock grumbled, hating when Jim pulled on that mask, but lifted his hips into the undignified position. He pressed his forehead into the pillow, the sound of his own breathing loud in his ears, his swollen cock hung throbbing between his legs. 

He stayed frozen in that position for an uncomfortable moment, waiting for Jim to do something. When nothing happened, he blushed, glaring back over his shoulder at the criminal suspiciously. “Are you making fun of me,” he demanded.

Jim winked at him. “Just admiring the view,” he drawled, then licked a thick line up the back of Sherlock’s thigh to the swell of his arse, keeping every part of the motion within view. Showing off. Sherlock huffed, amused by that idea. 

“Put your head down and close your eyes,” Jim said.

Sherlock pouted, but did as Jim asked. He was rewarded instantly with the hot wet slide of Jim’s tongue lapping up his taint, then burying deep into his hole. Sherlock gasped in surprise, then moaned, biting into the pillow as Jim’s hands massaged his balls while his tongue danced in and out of him, swirling around the rim of his hole, pushing in deep, only to travel down and up his taint again. Sherlock’s cock throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He felt precum slide down his hanging prick, then drip from the tip. Jim stroked him in hand several times, then pushed his fingers, soaked with Sherlock’s own fluids, into his hole. Realizing this, Sherlock’s legs began to quiver. “James,” he whimpered. 

“Still so tight,” Jim hummed, lapping at his rim again, then pushing in his fingers again. “Maybe I should schedule time to regularly fuck you open.”

Sherlock shivered. “Yes. Please,” he groaned, shifting his hips. “More.”

Jim chuckled. “Still greedy.” He sucked one of Sherlock’s testicles fully into his mouth, then the other. “Do you like the idea of me breaking in to your flat just to bend you over and take you?”

“Ah- yes Jim. More.”

His fingers began to pulse in and out of him. “More? More of what Sherlock? My words? My tongue? My fingers? You’re dripping dear.”

Sherlock clutched the sheets, grinding out in equal measure impatience, embarrassment and arousal, “Your cock. Fuck me now.”

“Excuse me,” Jim teased, biting Sherlock’s hip. 

“I’m asking for it. Please fuck me,” Sherlock growled.

“Yes you are,” Jim giggled, giving Sherlock’s arse another stinging slap. “You’re so swollen Sherlock. Perhaps I should have milked you first.” 

Sherlock heard the bottle of lubricant click open. He glanced back to see Jim slicking his cock and he breathed raggedly. Every nerve in his body vibrated with need. “Stop toying with me and get on with it,” he snarled.

Jim blinked at Sherlock then licked his hole again, sending another wave of shivers down the detective’s spine. “I like toying with you,” he said. “You’re mine to toy with.”

Sherlock whined with frustration. 

“Aren’t you?”

Sherlock bit his lip, but his resistance didn’t last long. “Yes,” he said at last.

Jim rose to his knees, grabbing Sherlock’s hips and guiding him back, teasing the tip of his erection at the rim of his hole. “Good. Think about all the bother you went through just to get yourself in this position.”

The words reminded Sherlock of exactly what position he was physically in and he blushed. Jim continued to tease himself right at the edge of entering him, but refused to push in. 

“Nothing more to say,” Jim hummed, entering him a few inches then retreating.

“For god’s sake,” Sherlock growled turning around and grabbing the criminal, pushing him down.

 Jim yelped, then started to laugh when Sherlock straddled him. “Impatient!”

“Shut up,” Sherlock said, taking Jim’s erection and lining it up. “I played your game. You weren’t playing fair.” He sank down, letting out a shuddering sigh as he was filled slowly, enjoying the sound of Jim taking a sharp startled breath below him. 

“I never play fair,” Jim exhaled.

Sherlock rolled his hips, starting a slow teasing pace. “Learn to.”

“Nah.” Jim shuddered. “You’re just determined to look at me,” he hummed, his smile sly, though he gripped the sheets under him tighter when Sherlock began to move.

Sherlock squeezed his internal muscles, smirking at the small whimper it pulled from the criminal. “I like looking at you James,” Sherlock said, “You’re mine to look at.” He began to rock his hips, lifting himself then sliding back down the man’s length, deep and hard. “Aren’t you?”

Jim gasped, then gave Sherlock a lopsided smile. “You think you’re clever.”

“I am clever. You’d have never let me do this if I weren’t. Now tell me you’re mine or I’m going to stop.”

“You’re bluffing,” Jim laughed, grabbing Sherlock’s hips and bucking into him hard twice, making the man gasp. 

Sherlock growled, grabbing Jim’s wrists and pinning them above his head as he ground his hips down, pulling a satisfying moan from the man. He leaned down, nipping at Jim’s lips. “Try me.”

Jim hummed, looking up at Sherlock slyly through his lashes. “Yours to look at,” he said softly.

Sherlock slid his fingers through Jim’s dark hair. “Mine to have.”

“Oh now you’re just being greedy,” Jim groused, but his eyes glistened with mirth.

“I’m going to spank you,” Sherlock deadpanned.

 “It’s hot when you get all assertive” Jim tittered, wiggling his hips playfully. The jostling brushed Sherlock pleasantly and his breath stuttered. His body’s tried to cum, but the pressure around the base of his cock kept him pent up, unable to release. He felt light-headed and flush. 

He pressed his forehead against Jim’s, centering himself for a moment, then taking the man’s face in his hands and kissing him. Jim kissed back easily, but his fingers gripped Sherlock’s hips and he began to thrust up into him, pulling sharp breathy moans with every movement, making everything more intense. It was increasingly too much and not nearly enough. 

“Oh poor you. Not as up to leading the dance as you thought.” Jim wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s waist and sat up slowly. 

The overstimulation had Sherlock in a daze, but he managed to whisper, “Shut up.” He found himself being pushed back with embarrassing ease. Jim had him on his back again, spreading his legs wide, ankles over the criminal’s shoulders. Then he began to move, a steady pulse in and out of him which set Sherlock’s body on fire. His eyes lost focus, blood swollen in his cock, flush in his lips, as his entire being became one tightly pulled string, thrumming to the rhythm Jim set.

It was like being high. Losing any sense of himself, pleasure peaking, too much, losing himself. Jim’s voice floated somewhere above him, but he couldn’t make out the words. He could only moan in response, unable to focus on the question, let alone what his answer should be. 

He was moved again, pliant to the other man’s wishes. Now on his hands and knees, Jim thrust into him again from behind, taking him harder and faster now, making Sherlock cry out with abandon, dimly aware that the volume of his moans echoed off the walls. The entirety of his being had condensed into sensation, the heat in his own body, the steady rhythm pounding into his body, the white hot haze of pleasure. 

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Jim could have been fucking him for minutes or hours, there was no way for him to tell. His only clue was a thick sheen of sweat covering his body, dripping from the tip of his nose when Jim finally slammed into him hard a few times as he released his cock from the strap and stroked him until he came hard across the sheets under him. In the next moment, he felt Jim tense and a strange heat fill his body. 

Sherlock’s arms shook and gave out under him. He lay in a pool of his own cum, but was too wiped out to fully register the fact. Jim’s weight dipped the mattress beside him as Sherlock struggled to catch his breath. After a few dizzying minutes, his cooling body shivered. 

Jim pulled Sherlock over to him, guiding his head to rest on Jim’s chest. A warm comforter was pulled over both of them and Sherlock drifted to sleep with the smell of sex heavy in the air.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hiatus guys. Grad school was a bitch there for a few semesters. Luckily I'm having a rather light semester this term. So getting back into the swing of things for act 2 of this thing. Thanks for reading!

In the dim half-sleep of early morning, Sherlock registered the sound of the front door closing and a set of keys hitting the kitchen counter downstairs. He startled awake, only to find Jim’s peacefully sleeping face across from him on the pillow. He hadn’t left him then.

A kettle clinked on the stovetop. Yet someone had definitely entered his flat. Sherlock frowned down at the sleeping criminal. No. He didn’t have a housemate, did he? He quickly filtered through every conversation they’d ever had. No. Jim had always indicated that he lived alone. No “live in pets”. Then who would have a key to the spider’s home? He grimaced. He knew who. 

“Jim,” Sherlock whispered, lightly shaking the man.

Jim’s face scrunched up and he rolled away from Sherlock, groaning grumpily. Definitely not a morning person. 

“Jim,” he repeated.

“What,” Jim grumbled.

“Do you have a housekeeper?”

The answering silence of Jim’s back only irritated Sherlock further. “Jim.”

“Fuck off, it’s too early,” Jim groused.

Sherlock huffed, flipping the covers off his legs and sliding out of bed. “Sebastian has a key, doesn’t he? He just pops in whenever.” No guest bedroom, so that meant if he did stay over, which having a key indicated he did, then there was only once place for him to sleep.

“Too early for this bullshit Sherlock,” Jim mumbled into his pillow.

“I’m taking it from him,” Sherlock said, pulling on his pants.

Jim giggled softly into his pillow.

“You think I can’t,” Sherlock snapped, glaring down at the criminal.

Jim tilted his face up, one sleepy eye peering from the pillow. “Go,” he said with a yawn, waving his hand dismissively. He rolled onto his back and ran his hand down his face with a labored exhale. “Go get my key back.” Jim sprawled out across the whole bed, stretching his body out in a way which accentuated his lean form.

Sherlock paused a moment to admire the view, then huffed. He stormed out of the room and down the stairs, steeling himself for the inevitable clash. This was a long time coming. Sebastian had to understand some ground rules. 

“I don’t care what your prior arrangement was, but obviously things have changed. If you can’t understand that simple concept, then I assure you I have ways of making you understand. “ 

“Make me? I’d like to see that,” a woman’s voice answered just as Sherlock rounded the corner and froze like a deer in headlights. Not the voice of just any woman. The woman. 

“I- I- uh,” he stammered as Irene Adler beamed at him from across the kitchen island. She leaned against the sink, her arms crossed across her chest. The morning sun filtered through the window catching her loose long hair just so and Sherlock forgot how to speak. 

She pushed her hip off the sink and sauntered a few steps towards him, giving him a long look up and down. “Fancy meeting you here,” she hummed, her red lips curved in a Cheshire cat smile. “Half undone.” Her eyes lit up as she planted her hands on the kitchen island and leaned forward. “How did that happen?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. He pursed his lips and stared at the floor a moment, before bouncing on the balls of his feet and moving toward the kettle, still heating on the stove. 

“You have a key,” he said.

“Observant as always,” she teased. “Quit stalling. What are you doing in such a ruffled, undressed state in Moriarty’s flat?”

Sherlock’s attention snapped to her. “Why do you have a key to Moriarty’s flat?”

She shrugged. “He lets me use it when I’m passing through and he’s out of town. I heard he was in Paris.”

“He just returned,” Sherlock snapped.

“Obviously,” she laughed, taking a few steps toward Sherlock again. Her smile deepened as Sherlock took a few steps away.

“I won’t bite,” she teased. Her face fell into a state of mock concern. “Did he?”

“Is that something the two of you are into,” Sherlock snapped back, confusion, jealousy, and just a bit of arousal churning in his gut. 

Without missing a beat Irene leaned forward, touching his arm as she whispered in his ear, “Aren’t you dying to know?”

At that moment, Jim walked in wearing nothing but a pair of tight black boxers, yawning sleepily. “The agreement was you wouldn’t make noise.”

“Your play date was the one being loud,” Irene pouted. “I’ve always wondered, is he loud in everything he does?”

Jim opened a kitchen cabinet and inspected a couple cups, blowing into them. “What are you doing here Bitch?”

“Nice to see you too Bastard.” Irene shot Sherlock a wink, then grabbed the cup from Jim’s hand and gave him a different one from the top shelf. “You poisoned that one, remember.” 

“Right,” Jim said, running his hands through his unruly hair. 

“So this is a thing with you two, is it,” Sherlock muttered irritably. 

Jim poured himself a cup of hot water and prepared his tea, while Irene looked at him with an arched eyebrow. “What is he going on about,” she asked.

Jim let out a satisfied sigh as he took the first sip from his cup. “He’s possessive.”

“Is he,” she brightened. “How long have you –“

“Second time in about three months.”

“Why so –“

“He was in rehab.”

“Oh.”

In rehab thanks to Jim. Sherlock shook then exploded. “I’m still here!”

The two of them froze and looked at him as if he were an imbecile. 

“Of course,” Jim drawled. 

The three of them stared in a silent standoff which lasted a few heartbeats, then Irene turned back to Jim.

“I heard you were mucking about with that French detective.”

“He’s Belgium.”

Sherlock took a deep irritated breath. “Yes. Well this is all just fantastically cozy, but Jim is tired.” He took Irene by the arm and began pulling her toward the door.

“He doesn’t look tired.”

“I assure you he is.”

“I doubt it. He’s always ready for more.” Irene glanced back at Jim, but he just continued to sip his tea, watching without comment.

“He had a long flight.”

“I haven’t had my tea yet.”

“I’m sure you’ll find something in town.”

She ducked out of his grip and danced around him, walking back into the kitchen. “I’ve had a long trip too, at least let me stay until after dinner. At least let me watch.”

Sherlock growled, then froze. “What are you saying?”

She glanced back at him slyly. “Oh? Interested?”

She stood with that cocky smile, bright eyes and fiery spirit. Jim was a few feet behind, dark and eerily detached. The image of an old fantasy sprang to mind and Sherlock blushed.

“He’s not,” Jim hummed. “Threw a pissy fit when Basher came by.”

The smile fell from Irene’s face and she studied Sherlock carefully a moment, then turned on her heel back toward Jim. She draped an arm around the criminal’s shoulder and murmured against his ear, not bothering to hide her lips as she formed the words with precision for Sherlock to read. “Not as uninterested as you think. Look.”

Jim’s dark eyes slid up, meeting Sherlock’s gaze with the intensity of a black hole. Sherlock’s face burned under their scrutiny. He cleared his throat and straightened his spine, trying to look affronted, but it was too late, of all the people in the world, these two could see right through him.

“Interesting,” Jim said softly. He slipped away from Irene’s hold, then continued in a bored tone. “But arousal doesn’t guarantee that he wants it.”

“I’m sure you could persuade him,” she cooed.

Jim shrugged. “I don’t care either way. He wants to be exclusive.”

Irene turned to Sherlock. “Oh that is precious.”

Sherlock flushed, but set his mouth into a grim line and glowered at her. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

She watched his expression a moment, then shrugged. “Ah well. Can’t blame a girl for trying.” She pecked Sherlock on the cheek, grabbed her keys and made her way for the door. “Call me if you change your mind sexy.”

Part of Sherlock was kicking himself as the door slid shut. The room was silent and still for several minutes before Sherlock finally moved to pour himself a cup of tea. “How long have you known her?”

“Since we were teenagers.”

Sherlock froze then looked at Jim in shock. The criminal simply looked back with unwavering boredom. True then.

“Ever sleep with her?”

“Yes.”

The silent stare off resumed until Sherlock grew uncomfortable. 

“Often?”

“Off and on.”

“And the last time it was on?”

Jim sighed. “This isn’t cute anymore.”

“When was it?”

“Three years ago.”

Sherlock bristled. “You knew me then.”

“I wasn’t buggering you then.”

“So you sent your own lover to seduce me?”

“She’s not my lover.”

“But you sleep with her.”

“Sometimes,” Jim said, throwing up his hands. “So what?”

“She’s a woman.”

“I noticed.”

“You’re into men.”

“Honey, I’m into everything.”

Sherlock blinked at Jim in surprise. It shouldn’t have been surprising, not really. But somehow it was and he didn’t know how to process it.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to be jealous of every person we pass on the street.”

“I don’t know. Have you fucked every person we’ll pass on the street?”

“And if I have, what’s it to you?”

Sherlock bristled at that. “You’re mine now.”

“I am indeed. So what’s the problem?”

Sherlock blushed. He felt foolish and inexplicably confused. He knew he wasn’t Jim’s first or second, hell at this rate, he might not be Jim’s hundredth. Was that what it was? For Sherlock there had only been a handful of people he’d ever even felt attraction for, taking the steps to make Jim his lover was everything to him. But for Jim? What was one more lay?

“Why,” he said at last.

“Why what?”

“Why are you just mine.”

“You know why.”

“The arrangement.”

Jim burst into laughter. “Not this again.”

“Is it enough?”

Jim rolled his eyes. “You tell me.”

“For you,” Sherlock mumbled.

Jim’s smile faded and he peered at Sherlock, stoic and unreadable. “Sex doesn’t mean much to me. Having it, not having it. I don’t care.”

“I see,” Sherlock said softly. “But you like it.”

“I enjoy it, yes.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “And has your enjoyment … diminished since we began this arrangement?”

“You’re the one who wanted this.”

“I’m aware,” Sherlock snapped, then looked away embarrassed. “I’m trying to – I just want to know if –“

Jim hooked a finger in Sherlock’s pants and pulled him closer. “I am enjoying this with you.”

“Would you enjoy it more if – I mean Irene’s offer, I just wondered if –“

Jim’s hand dropped and he took a couple steps back. “She’s right. You want to,” he said incredulously.

“I didn’t say that,” Sherlock stammered.

“You are, you’re practically screaming it,” Jim growled.

Sherlock’s thoughts ground to a halt. “Wait. Does that upset you?”

Jim laughed. “No darling. It doesn’t upset me. It’s just confusing as fuck.”

“This is for you.”

Jim scoffed. “Oh no. If you want something, you admit to it Sherlock. I’m not going to play these kinds of games with you.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched into a slight smile. “You like playing games with me.”

“Not this kind,” Jim warned. “I’ve been more than accommodating my little blushing virgin. But we’re not kids and I have no interest in feigned innocence. If you want to get your cock wet, own up to it. Don’t make it about me.”

Sherlock sighed. “It is about you.”

“Explain that.”

“Well, sort of.”

“I’m listening.”

“I am attracted to her. Have always been. But it’s your fault you sent her to me. That’s not what I mean, that’s not what this is about,” Sherlock stammered. The unimpressed blank expression on Jim’s face spurred him on. “What I mean to say is that you’re similar, but different and I’ve thought about it. You know. I’ve wondered. Wondered what it would be like.”

“To have with her?”

“To have you both.”

Jim arched a brow. “And is this fantasy or something you really want.”

“I don’t know.”

“You do know.”

Sherlock sighed. “I wouldn’t be opposed to expanding my horizons.”

Jim scoffed in disbelief. “She was right then.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock mumbled.

Jim leaned back against the kitchen counter. “Why are you sorry?”

Sherlock blinked. “You’re not angry?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I told you we could do anything you wanted Sherlock. You’re the one exploring.” Jim paused then glanced up thoughtfully. “You still haven’t bought me that maid’s outfit yet.”

Sherlock’s heart started hammering in his chest. “So you’re okay if we –“

“Yes,” Jim said dully. “We can invite Irene over for a playdate if you want. She can participate, she can just watch. However you want to do it. You’re in charge.”

“Really? Just like that?” 

Jim smiled impishly. “Though while we’re expanding your horizons, might I suggest we invite Sebastian over another night. Just to make sure you’re well rounded in the subject.”

The bottom fell out of Sherlock’s ricocheting heart. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

“What do you see in that idiot?”

Jim ran a finger up Sherlock’s arm. “Agree to it and I’d like to show you.”

Sherlock swallowed thickly. Obviously it was something Jim would enjoy. And he was being very accommodating. “Same arrangement? I set the boundaries.”

“Yes,” Jim hummed, his fingers teasing the waistband of Sherlock’s pants. “Of course. But I would suggest that if you want to really take him for a spin, you not put him in physical restraints. It’s more fun that way. Irene as well, but for different reasons.”

Sherlock swallowed thickly. He wasn’t sure if he was really ready for this, but the fear of it was part of what thrilled him. Jim’s hand cupped his cock which had grown rigid and erect without him realizing. Jim pulled Sherlock’s pants down and it sprung free. Jim slid to his knees, licking along the shaft as he looked up at him.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Okay. First Irene.”

“You’re the boss,” Jim hummed before wrapping his lips around Sherlock’s cock and sucking him down. 

Sherlock braced himself against the countertop, his head fell back and the morning’s first moan of pleasure escaped his throat with an airy need.


	20. Chapter 20

It had been two weeks since Jim agreed to inviting Irene into one of their rendezvous and not a word since. Was he the one who was supposed to contact her and ask? Jim had always arranged everything so far, but perhaps when he had said Sherlock was in charge of this event that meant that he should be the one to send the invites. Did people send invites to things like this? You are cordially invited to a private fuck party at the home of Mr. James Moriarty. Or perhaps Sherlock should be hosting. Was he supposed to buy snacks? Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin and searched for answers, but the ceiling above his couch offered none.

“Well?”

Sherlock blinked and glanced to his side. John was there. He looked expectant. He must have asked something.

“When did you get here?”

John sighed and threw himself back into his chair. “I’ve been here for over an hour. You must have noticed. We’ve been talking.”

“Have we?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Sherlock sat up and swung himself to face his friend. “About what?”

“Seriously,” John sighed. 

When Sherlock only stared back blankly, his companion rolled his eyes in disbelief. “Mycroft.”

Sherlock frowned. “That’s why I was blocking out your prattle.”

“I don’t prattle,” John huffed.

“Anything to do with my brother is prattle.”

“Irene Adler was spotted.”

Sherlock smirked. “Why does that seem to surprise you. Last you and my brother mentioned, she was in a witness protection program in … New Jersey was it?”

John cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Come on Sherlock. You knew.”

“I knew what?”

John waivered uncomfortably for a moment. “You knew we’d made that up to spare you.”

“Spare me?” Sherlock scoffed. “How considerate of you to help my brother keep me wrapped in cotton wool.”

“Yeah. Yeah okay, I’m sorry about that. I was just worried about you. I think Mycroft was too.”

Sherlock snorted at that and John shot him a look.

“In his way you know he was. When we thought she’d been killed the first time, you didn’t take it so well. We didn’t know what her real death would do to you.”

“But it wasn’t her real death. Was it?”

John’s mouth formed a thin grim line. “Apparently not.”

Sherlock nodded, satisfied. “Glad that’s all taken care of.”

“Has she contacted you?”

Sherlock looked at John incredulously. “She has not reached out to me, no.” He narrowed his eyes at John suspiciously. “Considering that I essentially condemned her to death and mocked her for it, I don’t anticipate she’ll be too interested in a reunion any time soon.”

“If she does, you will tell us, won’t you?”

“Yes. Fine.” Sherlock rubbed his hands over his face.

John nodded, then side eyed Sherlock. “So she came back from the dead. Again.”

Sherlock sighed. This was getting tedious. “Yep.”

“Like you.”

“Dear God. How many times do I have to apologize?”

“And Moriarty.”

“Who didn’t really come back, just pathetically pale shadows.”

“You sure about that?” 

Sherlock’s attention snapped back to his friend. “Why are you asking me that?”

“Mycroft says –“

Sherlock jumped up, “For christ’s sake. Mycroft says, Mycroft says.” He jutted down, grabbing the arms of John’s chair and snarled “Let me tell you something, Mycroft says a lot of things, half of them lies, half delusional flights of fantasy.”

John met Sherlock’s gaze unflinching. “Must run in the family,” he said evenly.

Sherlock straightened and tugged at his dress shirt primly. “If you say so.”

John crossed one leg over the other and tapped his forehead with his finger. “He’s right though. You’ve been acting strange for quite some time now. The kind of strange I’ve only seen once before.”

“Still leveling off from my drug relapse you so graciously saved me from.”

“Don’t start with me on that,” John said pointing at the detective. “

Sherlock smiled tightly. “Of course. It was for the best in the end.”

John sighed and shook his head. “I am your friend Sherlock. You can tell me anything.”

“Most of which you wouldn’t understand.”

“I may not understand, but I will listen. I won’t judge you. I may not agree with you, but you know I won’t judge you.”

“Except if I fake my suicide and don’t tell you. Then I never hear the end of it.”

“For Christ’s sake Sherlock. It was a dick move.”

Sherlock grinned at John and his friend just laughed and shook his head. 

“You are an utter arse,” John continued, but he was smiling. Sherlock liked it when he made John smile. “I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you. You can be honest with me.”

Sherlock tilted his head, then sat back, steepling his hands under his chin. “Honest? About anything?”

John nodded with serious concern etched on his face. “Of course.”

“Fine. I have essentially bought Moriarty as my exclusive lover and I’m currently trying to determine the best way to invite Irene in for a threesome. But in arranging it I sort of also promised to let Sebastian Moran have his way with me, which is frankly a complicating factor. Do you think I should just make it an orgy and if so, should I send engraved invitations?”

John stared blankly at Sherlock for a long moment. He blinked, then shook his head. “You know what. When you’re ready to tell me what’s really going on, give me a call yeah?”

Sherlock didn’t move as John put on his coat and walked to the door. “What about catering,” he called after his friend as the door closed.

Alone in the silence of his flat Sherlock grinned to himself. Well, John can’t say he never told him this time. His moment of childish glee was interrupted by the sound of his phone pinging.

He spun it on the side table and the incoming text message glowing on the surface sent his heart racing. 

/That was out of bounds telling him. X/

Sherlock looked around his flat. “So you still have the place bugged?”

/So does your brother. Careful what you say aloud. X/

Sherlock scowled. It was beginning to irk him, how Jim was always one step ahead in this new game of theirs. He picked up his phone and began typing.

/Disable his cameras. SH/

/Say please. X/

/Now. SH/

/Fine. Done. X/

Sherlock put down his phone and got up, pacing slowly around his flat and scanning the book cases. “When did you put them back in?”

/I never took them out. X/

“I searched the flat after you left. I never found anything.”

/I know. Gets you hard when I outwit you, doesn’t it? X/

Sherlock smiled at that. “So you just tune in when you’re bored?”

/Sometimes. X/

Sherlock slowly circled the room, turning over books and objects. He did like it when Jim was clever. Made him more than hard. “Ever see anything interesting?

/When you’re there. Always. X/

Sherlock set the phone down on his desk then began to slowly unbutton his shirt. The fabric slid down his arms and fell to the floor. “How about now?”

/You have my full attention. X/

Finally, Sherlock thought. “Good,” he said. He teased at the button his trousers, opening slowly, letting the fabric fall to the floor. How long could he keep Jim’s full respectful attention. He palmed his cock through the fabric of his pants. “Still there?”

/Keep going. X/

Sherlock slipped his hands under the waistband, fondling himself under fabric. He exhaled shakily, letting his head fall back, his eyes flutter shut. He was performing for Jim now. Desperate for the other man’s attention. It was part of his uncertainty in bringing in other partners. Was it something he wanted, or something he was doing to impress Jim. 

/Take them off. X/

Sherlock grinned. Gottcha. “What do I get if I do?”

/Your life. X/

Sherlock laughed, moving his hand up the length of his cock which had grown to tent his pants impressively. “You’re being cute. I don’t know if cute is enough to motivate me to keep going.” He was tired of feeling insecure when it came to this man. If he was going to share Jim, he wanted to make sure the criminal was fully his own first.

/I swear I will burn everything you love to the ground if you stop now Holmes. X/

Nope. Orders and death threats. He was over it. Jim belonged to him. Sherlock pulled his hand out of his pans. “Well I’m bored now.”

/Fire and Blood Sherlock. I swear. X/

Sherlock wandered to television set and flopped down in front of it. “I wonder what’s on crap telly.”

His phone rang. Sherlock grinned triumphantly as he answered. “Hello?”

“What do you want,” Jim’s voice sounded just a bit ragged. Interesting. Voyeurism got his engines going rather quickly. How could he use that?

“Come here,” Sherlock said softly. 

“Your brother has the block under surveillance,” Jim grumbled.

“Luckily for me, you’re a criminal mastermind. Government surveillance is a trivial nuisance at best,” Sherlock hummed. His hand slipped back under the waistband of his pants. 

Jim snorted. Sherlock stood, slipping his pants down his hips. This was starting to get heady, having Jim on hook like this. It filled him with an energy which he’d only tasted the edges of before. “I want to have you James. Now,” he said lowly. “Wear that gray suit you wore to your trial. I want to tear it off of you.”

There was a pause on the other end. Oh? Had he surprised him? 

“I will kill you for this,” Jim growled at last. 

“That’s going to be rather difficult from the position I intend to take you in, but you’re welcome to try,” Sherlock hummed.

The uptick in Jim’s breathing made Sherlock’s cock twitch. After a long moment, Jim said softly, “And what position is that exactly?”

“Touch your cock Jim,” Sherlock said as he shed his pants, standing bare in rays of daylight filtering in from the window.

“You know I am,” the criminal muttered.

“You like to watch, don’t you Jim? Are you still paying attention?” Sherlock stroked himself slowly, steadily. He set the phone down, setting it to speaker. 

“Yes,” Jim said, his voice barely above a sigh.

“Good,” Sherlock hummed. “It is irksome when you treat me like I’m harmless James. Do you know that.”

Jim’s answering snort only made Sherlock’s blood roil.

“First I’d skin you of your fancy clothes and handcuff you. You’d be my prisoner Jim. I’d want to take my time with you, but you know how impatient I can be at first. I won’t be able to help myself. I’d bend you over and take you immediately over the first available surface.”

Jim’s breathing ratchetted up noticeably. “And then,” he said softly.

“Then we’d just be getting started. I want to fill you Jim. Again, and again. Can you imagine that? I want to see how red I can make your pert little arse. I want to see my cum dripping out of your filled little hole and slide down your trembling leg before I fill you again. Has anyone ever done that to you?”

Jim stifled a moan on the other end of the connection. “No.”

“Good,” Sherlock hummed. “Before I share you, I want you to know that you’re mine now. To your bones, I want you to know it James.” 

Jim’s ragged breathing was all that answered. Confidence swelled in Sherlock’s chest. “Are you going to cum for me now James?”

The criminal growled in annoyance on the other end.

“Do it. I want to hear you,” Sherlock said deep and low.

On cue, Jim Moriarty groaned with a strained growl, then fell silent. Shallow, rapid breathing filled the other end of the line. 

Sherlock dropped his hand from his cock and picked up the phone. “Be here in an hour, dressed in the suit requested. Don’t bother with underthings, you won’t be wearing them long.” With that he ended the call before Jim could reply.

He collapsed back into his chair in stunned disbelief. Where had that come from? His emotions roiled inside him. Wherever that came from, he liked it.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter and the next one or two will be steadily escalating Sherlock/Jim kink. Because reasons.   
> If it's not your bag, skip ahead.

There’s the thrill of talking a big game, that swell of ego which for a moment makes a person feel as though they have just sucked in more life from the universe than is their due. It’s a giddy powerful feeling which explodes like fireworks up from your chest to land on your lips with a smile. Then there’s the moment where you must back up your words with actions. Confidence vaporizes and all the energy begins to wind slowly in on itself, like a spring, making every fiber of your being vibrate with conflicting desire. Prove yourself worthy of every syllable or swallow your words whole. Fight or flight. 

Having a brilliant, gorgeous, insane, criminal mastermind standing at your threshold with an expression which could be read as either amorous or murderous was one of those moments. Sherlock dare not run. 

He paused for only a moment, meeting Moriarty’s dark challenging gaze with an icy front which he could only hope was enough to cover the sound of his blood hammering through his veins. Jim’s lips quirked up ever so slightly at the edges. The ice broke. Like a whiplash, Sherlock snatched the man by the tie and dragged him into the flat. The door slammed and Jim was shoved back against it. 

Jim laughed. 

Sherlock didn’t care. He grabbed Jim by the hair and curled his larger frame around the man, inhaling the expensive cologne the criminal favored, flicking out his tongue to taste the patch of exposed skin right behind his ear. 

Jim dared to yawn, muttering in a bored tone, “Is this supposed to impress me?”

In the next moment Jim was spun around, his hands cuffed behind him as his chest was pressed against the door. Sherlock reached beside the man and locked the deadbolt. “James,” he hummed into the criminal’s ear. “Do shut up.”

Jim’s black eyes slid to meet the detective’s, glittering with amusement. Yet to Sherlock’s complete surprise, he remained silent. The obedience caught Sherlock so off guard that he hesitated, locked into Jim’s steady gaze like a deer in headlights. The pause lasted a little longer than it should have and Sherlock realized that if he didn’t do something, anything, soon that this would all fall apart. He grabbed Jim roughly and threw him over his shoulder like a sack of grain, marching to his bedroom with determination.

Over his shoulder he heard Jim snicker and mutter, “That a boy.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw and ignored the dig. He dropped Jim onto his mattress, watching the man bounce once then settle, the picture of calm as he simply looked up at Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock paced around the bed, admiring the image of a fantasy come true. Jim Moriarty, bound, pliant, willing, and at his mercy.

“Shall I talk you through the next part,” Jim hummed.

“I’ll gag you,” Sherlock snapped.

“Doubt it,” Jim sighed. “You’ll want to hear me scream.”

Sherlock’s step faltered. “You scream?”

“Come here and find out,” Jim said with a wink.

Sherlock walked away. He paused in front of his dresser and opened the top drawer. He traced his fingers over an array of instruments, whips, binds, clamps, all manner of deviancy. Everything purchased for the sake of the work, of scientific curiosity, of course. It felt odd to admit to himself silently that there was a deeper interest there, one never explored. “Limits,” Sherlock asked, without turning around.

“Shit on me and you die,” Jim said.

Sherlock picked up a switchblade and turned around, holding it up for Jim to see as he approached him. “Really? That’s it?”

Jim looked at the blade with a bored expression. “Yes.”

Sherlock spun the blade slowly between his fingers. “So this?”

Jim snorted. “Sure. Cut wherever you want.”

Sherlock crawled slowly onto the bed, caressing the edge of Jim’s cheek with the blade as he met his gaze steadily. “Anywhere? You sure?” The tip of the blade edged just under Jim’s eye.

The criminal didn’t so much as blink. “Anywhere you want,” he hissed out in challenge.

Sherlock smiled. He grabbed the collar of Jim’s dress shirt and in a flash slashed down the front of the fine fabric, with a viscous rip. Each halve of the suit, dress shirt, and broken tie lay to either side of Jim’s bare heaving chest. 

Jim blinked in stunned disbelief for a moment, then his face contorted in rage as he boomed, “You ARE DEAD!” 

Sherlock grabbed and flipped him onto his stomach. “This was silk, wasn’t it? You always did have good taste.” He grabbed the waist of Jim’s trousers and slid the knife down, heart stuttering to watch his pale round bottom emerge from the tattered fabric. Sherlock wasted no time ripping the remains from Jim’s legs, cutting through the sleeves of the suit, leaving him denuded and face down, wearing nothing but handcuffed.

“Your death with be slow and painful,” Jim growled.

Sherlock tossed the tatters to the floor, massaging Jim’s arse in his hands. “You defined the limits,” Sherlock chastised. He licked a stripe up the crevice of Jim’s cheeks and the criminal went still beneath him. “Do you want me to stop?” He teased the pad of his finger along Jim’s hole. 

Jim’s breath stuttered. “No.”

Sherlock bit into the mound of Jim’s arse and the way his body arched in response, made Sherlock’s cock throb. “Since you seem to be a bit forgetful today, are there any other limits you’d like to add?” A bright red welt was left on Jim’s flawless skin in the wake of Sherlock’s teeth.

Jim’s chest heaved slightly. “No.”

Sherlock flipped Jim on this his back and clamped a hand against the criminal’s throat. “Do you want me to make you my pretty fuck toy James,” Sherlock cooed.

Jim’s eyes searched Sherlock’s for a moment in curiosity. Seeming to find what he was looking for, he swallowed under the hand at his throat and smiled crookedly. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” he said with a voice soft as feather down.

That took Sherlock’s breath away. The grip on Jim’s throat relaxed and he found his fingers trailing down to trace the criminal’s collarbone. “So polite. Are you going to be a good boy for me James?”

Jim smirked at that. “Don’t count on it Sherl.”

Sherlock snorted. “Ah well. A man can dream.”

He picked Jim up and threw him over his lap, admiring the view as Jim obliged him with a brief wiggle of protest. “But since you’re determined to be naughty.” Sherlock’s hand landed across Jim’s arse with a loud crack and Jim’s hips went completely still, even as his cock twitched noticeably against Sherlock’s thigh. He caressed the reddened skin a moment in wonder. “I think we’re supposed to establish a signal word,” he mused.

Jim giggled, his head pressed into the mattress. “Are we?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s what people do.”

“We’re not people.”

Sherlock’s hand landed another blow, the crack of skin on skin echoed in the small room. “I’m afraid I must insist.”

Jim gasped at the blow, then turned his head to glance back at Sherlock. “Taibhse.”

Sherlock arched a brow. “What does that mean?”

Jim pressed his forehead against the mattress and closed his eyes. “Does it matter?”

Sherlock moved Jim back onto the bed. “I suppose not,” he said casually, but made a mental note to look up the word later. He wandered back to his chest of drawers and ran his fingers over the assortment of implements. Unable to decide what to bring first, he grabbed nearly all of them in a big armful and carried them back, letting them clatter in a pile at the foot of the bed. 

Jim eyed them for a moment then looked at Sherlock with an arched brow. “I don’t think you’ll be able to use them all at the same time, but I’m willing to try if you are,” he said.

Sherlock ignored Jim and climbed up on the bed, standing to attach a chain to a ring hook in the ceiling. The metal clattered as he pulled it down to hang above Jim’s head. The criminal sat up on his knees and eyed the chain above him. “How long have you had that installed?’

Sherlock unlocked one of Jim’s wrists and pulled his hands above his head, reattaching each cuff to Jim’s wrist and one end of the looped chain. “Since you told me we could do things like this.” He stepped back to inspect his work, pleased to find he’d gauged the height perfectly. The distance between the end of the chain and the Jim’s outstretched arms, was just enough to stretch Jim’s body fully, while still giving him enough slack to sit comfortably on the mattress, or strain against the bonds if he were leaned forward in the right position. 

“Eager.” Jim mused, tugging his hands against the restraints, testing them.

“You have no idea,” Sherlock said, picking up a spreader bar and lashing each end to Jim’s thighs. Jim snickered as he was pushed up onto his knees with his legs spread open at a 45-degree angle. Sherlock stroked the criminal’s cock and his soft laughter ceased immediately. “I know you’re so worldly and experienced and above it all James, but do try to pay attention. You are after all my captive.”

Jim went silent, but a small smile remained as he inclined his head in a small bow which should have been less graceful than it was in his position. Sherlock huffed and began to coat lube onto a small vibrator. He circled behind Jim and slid the device in, watching the muscles in Jim’s thighs tense as he turned it on. He bit into the meat of Jim’s arse, working a line of bites up to the base of the man’s spine as he slid the device in and out of him slowly. 

He took his time, enjoying the steady increase of Jim’s breath as he toyed with him at leisure. Precum dripped at the tip of the criminal’s straining cock. Sherlock slid his hands into his own trousers and stroked himself as he continued to work Jim slick and open. Once he was satisfied, he turned it off and set it aside, raking his teeth along Jim’s hipbone to find his way to the man’s neglected cock. He sucked him with lazy indulgence for a few minutes. At the first whisper of a moan, he stopped, kissing his way up Jim’s chest.

“You might be disappointed that I’m being so gentle,” Sherlock whispered into Jim’s ear before biting the lobe. “I’m just trying to lessen the blow of what’s to come.” He curled around Jim, pulling him into his lap and lining the tip of his cock up to the slick warm heat of Jim’s hole.

Jim met his eyes and visibly shivered. Whether it was an act for his playmate’s benefit or genuine, was impossible to tell, but the effect on Sherlock was real enough. He ran his fingers through Jim’s hair in wonder. The man looked so slight, so pretty, so deceptively harmless. And under it all was a mind that burned as bright as his own. He traced the pad of his finger over the fine arch of Jim’s eyebrow, down his jawline. “God I love you,” he sighed.

Jim went rigid as he blinked in stunned disbelief. The fine features of his face twisted into a venomous snarl, but before a single drop of poison could spit forth, Sherlock wrenched his head back and kissed him, pillaging his mouth with possessive heat while he slammed himself into Jim’s body in one rough thrust. 

Wrapping an arm around Jim he began thrusting into him with abandon. The growl in Jim’s throat morphed into a moan and Sherlock swallowed it greedily. When the muscles in Jim’s body relaxed again he dared to relinquish the kiss, nipping at Jim’s panting mouth before meeting his dark eyes and whispering, “I do you know. Love you. Suppose I always have.”

Jim tensed like a coiled snake again and Sherlock shoved his tongue down the viper’s mouth before he could reply. His fingers dug into Jim’s hip and he hammered into him harder. Sex as a distraction to intimacy. He supposed he wasn’t the first to use such a tactic, but perhaps not quite this way. He was pressing it, he knew, but his instincts told him there was no other way to make Jim listen. He hooked his arms under Jim’s knees and using the spreader bar as leverage folded Jim in half so his arse hung down to accept each pummeling thrust of Sherlock’s cock. Jim whimpered as Sherlock took him deeper.

With reluctance Sherlock released his monopoly on Jim’s mouth, giving him a chance to call it off. Jim gasped for air, then tilt back his head to moan as Sherlock tilted him slightly to hit his prostate. A few moments later, Jim came with a growl, coating his stomach and Sherlock’s shirt with cum before going completely slack. 

Sherlock set him down gently and Jim’s head hung forward as he caught his breath is short shallow pants. The sinews in his arms flexed as he pulled taut against the restraints above him. Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt then tossed it to the ground as admired the wet stain spreading along his sheets from Jim’s arse. 

When Jim made no sound of protest, Sherlock felt brave enough to crawl up to him and curl a finger under the man’s chin. He tilted his face up to meet his gaze. “I love you James.”

“You are an idiot,” Jim said dully.

“One of us certainly is,” Sherlock agreed, then kissed Jim’s lips with soft reverence.


	22. Chapter 22

The rope creaked under Jim’s weight, the fine red lines of friction burn glowed under the glimmering sheen of sweat on pale skin. The stretch of Jim’s sinewy bicep as he adjusted against his restraints, his steady ragged breaths, his dark eyelashes unveiling the intense gaze, everything about this moment was burning itself into Sherlock’s mind forever. 

“Restraints again? This a thing for you or are you just taking your role in cops and robbers very seriously?” Jim smirked, his expression one of unflustered self-control, but the flush on his body told a different story.

“I’m not a cop,” Sherlock said, tracing the pattern of the single stretch of rope which criss-crossed Jim’s body, held him suspended on glorious display. His fingers followed the line to where the base of the criminal’s thrice-spent cock was tied. “And you’re so much more than a simple robber.”

Jim barked a short laugh as a small drop of sweat fell from the tip of his nose. His midnight sky eyes focused to meet Sherlock’s with laser intensity. “No of course not. I’m the love of your life.”

Sherlock flattened his palm against Jim’s stomach and slid behind him, kissing the man’s neck. “You are.”

“Fine. I am,” Jim said softly as he lifted his chin, giving Sherlock’s lips access to travel up to the base of his jaw. “For another 2982.5 hours.”

Sherlock froze. “You’re still counting.”

“You’re an idiot if you’re not.”

Sherlock paused, running the calculations in his head. “You’re counting the times you came over for coffee.”

“Yes.”

“And the times we were sleeping.”

“Yes.”

“And the time I called you on that little case.”

“You’re the one who insisted on a meeting.”

Panic roared into Sherlock’s chest. “That doesn’t COUNT,” he shouted.

“You said time together, not time fucking,” Jim muttered with a bored little sigh.

Sherlock spun Jim around to face him, the rope creaked as it twisted, sending the criminal’s body into a slight sway. Sherlock grabbed Jim’s chin and looked at him. “You said you’d try ...”

Jim yawned. “Try what?”

Sherlock blushed. He looked down mumbling, “You said you’d be my boyfriend.”

“And so I am,” Jim said. “For another 2982 hours.”

“What happened to the 0.5?”

“I docked you for boring me.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped up to meet Jim’s. He looked very self-possessed now, in control despite the intricate spiderweb pattern Sherlock had tied him up in. He thought Jim would appreciate the aesthetics, the meaning behind it. Jim clearly understood, but he was rejecting him.

“You’re angry and you’re lashing out at me,” he said at last.

“Am I?” Jim snickered. “Would your boyfriend do that to you?”

Sherlock gaped, his heart hammered in his chest. 

Jim’s smile widened. “Would the love of your life say something to hurt you Sherlock? Tell you the precise moment they’re going to leave you forever?”

“That’s not the arrangement,” he said blinking back tears.

“That’s the point. This is an arrangement,” Jim hissed. He wobbled his head a bit and glanced up at the ropes holding him suspended. “A sexy arrangement I’ll grant you. Did you youtube how to do Shibari?”

“Is it because I said I love you?”

Jim simply looked back at him dully. “I think you need to wear leather if we’re moving on to play interrogate the prisoner.”

“Of course it is,” Sherlock laughed, wiping his eyes. “Stupid question. I pushed and you weren’t ready.”

Jim sighed. “You’re doing an awful job of it. Mycroft at least had someone slap me around a bit.”

Mycroft. Sherlock froze. Blood pounded in his ears. Mycroft offered him a way to keep Jim forever. 

“Oh don’t look like that,” Jim tutted. “It was all S&M with your brother and I in that little cage he kept me in. He never fucked me. Though I think he might have wanted to.”

Sherlock lay his head on Jim’s shoulder and traced the edge of his collarbone shakily. He was restrained. One phone call and Mycroft would put Jim in a cage forever. He’d be able to visit him, touch him, any time he wanted, for as long as he wanted. What choice did he have? Now that he’d had a taste of the man, he knew he’d die without him. 

“Look at me Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked up in a daze to find Jim looking down at him with what could only be called … concern? That couldn’t be right. 

Jim searched Sherlock’s expression in silence for a few moments, then sighed. His body wriggled a bit in the binds and then he abruptly fell free, crashing onto the bed and sending Sherlock toppling. Jim landed on top of him.

“How?”

Jim held up a bloody hand, a sleek strip of metal glinted between two fingers. “Palmed a razor blade from your sink before you tied me up.”

Sherlock frowned and Jim laughed. “Honey. You don’t survive for long as I have by leaving yourself without an escape route.”

“Even in bed,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Especially in bed,” Jim said, planting a kiss on forehead. 

“How would you have gotten out of the cuffs?”

Jim poked his tongue against his cheek, prodding a moment before two shiny lock picks poked out from his lips, clenched in his teeth.

“You’re ruining the fantasy.” Sherlock’s head lulled to the side, his heart still hammering.

Jim spit the picks onto the bed, they landed with a clink a few inches from Sherlock’s nose. “I thought you were a man of reality.”

Sherlock glanced up. Jim still looked concerned. Was everything he’d said a few minutes ago an act? Or was this the act? He raised an unsteady hand to run his palm along Jim’s leg. “How do I make the fantasy into a reality?”

“You stop trying,” Jim said, running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and kissing the spot behind his ear that sent shivers down the detective’s body. “You give up.” 

“I don’t know how to do that,” Sherlock said with a sigh, stretching underneath Jim as he pulled him closer. His body was so warm and present. He couldn’t imagine a day when he could no longer touch this man, hold him like this.

“I love that about you,” Jim chuckled. Sherlock’s breath caught. “And I hate it,” Jim continued and Sherlock exhaled, squeezing his eyes tight.

“So you do love something about me,” Sherlock said.

“And hate it,” Jim repeated.

Sherlock faked every bit of courage he could muster and shrugged carelessly. “It’s a start.”

“Pathetic,” Jim muttered.

Sherlock sat up and kissed him. “When it’s for you? You love it,” he whispered.

“Being clever now?”

Sherlock kissed Jim’s neck. “You love it.”

“You’re a brat.”

Sherlock chuckled, kissing the hollow of Jim’s throat. “You love it.”

Jim pushed Sherlock away. “I hate you.”

Sherlock pounced, pinning Jim’s wrists to the mattress. “Brilliant, mad, calculating machine like you? Yes, I’ve made you feel something. That’s what you hate.”

“You delude yourself,” Jim growled.

“I deduce,” Sherlock said, kissing Jim’s snarling lips and running his hands down the man’s stomach to caress the beginning of an erection with his fingertips. 

Jim gasped and arched his back into the touch. “2981,” he gasped against Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock blinked a moment, then murmured, “2980, 2979, 2978…” as he nipped and kissed Jim’s chest and massaged his balls. “The off-switch to this countdown has to be somewhere.” He latched his teeth to the nub of Jim’s nipple and pulled gently as he flicked his tongue rapidly over the reddening flesh, pulling a satisfying gasp of the criminal. 

“There’s no off-switch,” Jim groaned as Sherlock’s fingers slid into his well-fucked hole.

“There’s always an off-switch,” Sherlock whispered, pushing a second finger into him and smiling when his own cum leaked out to drip onto his hand.

“Not when I build the bomb honey,” Jim grinned, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and lifting himself up into the detective’s lap, grinding against him. 

“Oh we both know that’s not quite true,” Sherlock said, wrapping an arm around Jim’s waist and lifting him to penetrate his body once again. There was a certain way Jim arched his back, a way his head lulled back and his eyes slipped shut for just a moment whenever he first entered that always left Sherlock entranced. A single moment when Jim was silent and serene. Sherlock had come to look forward to seeing it each time he had him. Wasn’t that a difference between a simple sexual encounter and lovers? Learning to anticipate their partner’s patterns, knowing their likes and dislikes, acquiring an intimate knowledge of that person above all others? Putting their needs first?

Jim ground his hips down and began to move. He pressed his palms to Sherlock’s shoulders and guided him back, until he was laying on the mattress, staring up at the criminal as he ground against him, riding his cock. Body flush, panting, eyes unfocused, animal. Sherlock moaned, his balls tightening at the sight. He reached up to touch Jim, but his hand was smacked away. 

He lifted his hand again, then froze when he remembered how tempted he was to turn Jim over to Mycroft. Because he thought he was losing him. He might still be losing him. Or perhaps he never really had him. This was as Jim said, a fantasy, bought and paid for. Each thrum of pleasure Jim was pulling out of Sherlock’s body took on a sour note at that thought. Lovers put each other’s needs ahead of their own. That’s right isn’t it? He read it somewhere. Maybe on John’s blog. It sounded sentimental enough, that was probably it. Regardless, he knew one thing very clearly as he stared up at the hollow image of Jim Moriarty grinding down on him, eyes closed, mouth open and panting. This was meaningless. It was selfish. It was wrong. 

Jim’s eyes fluttered open and his movements slowed. “Oi. You’re going soft, get your head in the game.”

Sherlock turned his face away and closed his eyes. “I can’t,” he said. 

Jim punched Sherlock’s arm. “Yes you can. Stop thinking.”

Sherlock sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Do something about it,” Jim grumbled.

Sherlock sat up. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll just go.”

He got all of three feet when a loop of rope hooked him by the throat and tightened. He clawed at his neck, but was yanked back off of his feet, sending his tailbone crashing to the floor, shooting dull pain up his spine. 

Jim crouched down behind him and gave the rope a short tug. “This is your flat doofus.”

Sherlock choked against the rope, managing to get a finger between his skin and the loop enough to take a gasp for air. “Sorry.”

“You certainly are.”

Sherlock looked back at Jim’s face, the man’s dark eyes furrowed and flitting over Sherlock’s, reading him, but not quite able to comprehend what he was seeing. “I’m sorry. Perhaps you better go.”

“Someone cut my clothes to ribbons,” Jim hummed. 

Sherlock blushed. “Sorry.”

“Stop saying that,” Jim snapped. 

Sherlock got to his feet shakily. “I’ll get you something you can borrow.”

He stumbled to his closet and hurriedly rummaged through his clothing until he found something that would do. Behind him he heard Jim pace back toward the window. He took a deep breath before he turned around to face him. “It will be a little big on you, but –“

Click

Sherlock stood frozen, staring down the barrel of a gun. “I know you’re a fashion critic, but this is a bit extreme,” he deadpanned.

“You’ll like the next game Sherlock,” Jim said, his voice soft and cold. “We’ve played it before. It’s called, stop the big bad villain from blowing your brains out. You remember?”

And oddly enough, Sherlock immediately relaxed. This he understood. This he could handle. He nodded silently. 

“Good boy. Now take a seat,” Jim said, gesturing to the bed.

Sherlock dropped the clothing on the floor and took a seat at the foot of his bed. He looked up at Jim and laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“We’ve never played this game with our clothes off before.”

Jim pressed the barrel of his pistol to Sherlock’s temple and smirked. “You love it,” he said, then leaned down and kissed him. Sherlock’s breath stuttered and he kissed him back as he squeezed his eyes shut. 

“Yes,” he said, nodding. Then looked up at Jim, whispering. “God help me I do.”

Jim held the pistol firm to Sherlock’s head as his free hand raked back the hair from his eyes. “Tell daddy what’s wrong.”

“You don’t love me,” Sherlock growled, glaring up at Jim, hurt and angry and wanting so very much of what he knew he could not, should not, have.

“Love is a chemical defect found on the losing side. Isn’t that what you always say?”

“I don’t always say that,” Sherlock grumbled.

“If you’re going to lie to me, please make it a little more interesting than that.”  
Sherlock turned his head until his forehead was centered on the barrel of the pistol. “Just do it,” he sighed. “You got what you wanted all those years ago. You’ve burnt me.”

The cool metal pulled back. When Sherlock opened his eyes, the gun hung limply to Jim’s side as the criminal stared off out the window at something unseen. “No,” Jim said at last. “You’re broken.”

“Congratulations,” Sherlock sniped with a bitter smile.

“Nothing to do with me,” Jim said, tossing the pistol onto the bed then snatching the clothes Sherlock had dropped to the floor. “You did it to yourself.”

He paused at the door. “Give me a call if you want to continue,” he hummed, eyeing Sherlock up and down. “If you can pull your head out of your arse.”  
And with that, he was gone.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone asked me to give a warning when the threesome portion of the story begins, since they only like Jim/Sherlock pairing. So here's the warning. Irene's involvement starts on this chapter. I'm planning chapter 24 to be the actual smutty threesome scene. It will spill over into 25 & 26 where Moran enters the mix. 
> 
> So I started writing this before seeing Six Thatchers. I wrestled with whether or not to rewrite the part with Mary in it, but in the end decided to keep it. I liked her character and am gutted that she’s gone, though I do understand she was destined to go at some point. So let’s just say for this fic that she’s not gone yet.  
> ***************************************************************************************************************************

What madness had overtaken the Watsons to make them think he would make the best babysitter was beyond him. The baby sat in her carrier tucked into John’s chair and Sherlock considered her wide-eyed gurgling with stoic curiosity. Baby’s make couples closer. Isn’t that something normal people believe. If it was, it was likely a stupid notion. He paused, considering that thought. But perhaps not altogether wrong. Would Jim want a kid? Did he have one somewhere already? Could he be a father to Jim’s lovechild? He bristled suddenly, embarrassed by the train of thought he’d gone down, and scowled at the baby. “Why do your lot always make things complicated?”

The infant sneezed and blinked her big blue eyes.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. Despite the drool dribbling down her chin now, she remained endearing. What trick of nature was this? “You should know that I am immune to the manipulations of biology which put the typical adult at mercy to your whims,” he barked.

She squirmed in her seat and held out her chubby hands to him, making gibberish squeals of laughter. Sherlock sighed and picked her up. She immediately erupted into ear-rending screams. He hastily put her back down again, in a panicked hush mumbling, “please. Stop. Sorry. Sorry. Stop,” but the tiny godling was having none of it, kicking her feet and wailing at the top of her lungs in a full blown fit. 

In his mind a series of infant appeasement strategies scrolled through his mind and he tried each in quick succession, from bottle, to toys, to diaper change (even though she was dry), to changing her clothes, fluffing up her blankets, dimming the lights, turning them back up again, putting on music, turning music off, nothing worked. In an overwhelming flood of frustration he leaned down and hissed, “I am immune to psychological torture if that’s what you’re after.”

The wails intensified and a feminine laughter startled Sherlock from behind. He whirled around to find Irene Adler, hiding her smile behind her hand. “Sorry,” she said, her red lips curved into a mischevious grin. 

“Come to mock me too,” Sherlock grumbled. 

“Not at all,” she replied, making her way to the baby and picking her up. “Hold out your arm, 90 degree angle, palm up,” she said.

Sherlock frowned, but complied. Irene laid the screaming baby across his forearm face down, her head cradled in palm of Sherlock’s hand. One she was secure Irene took Sherlock’s other hand and guided him to rub the baby’s back. She burped once, then yawned and went silent. 

“You never struck me as the motherly type,” Sherlock said as he watched the infant fade into sleep with wonder. 

“Oh I’m not. But one of my clients is.”

“And you know what she likes,” Sherlock sighed.

“He,” Irene corrected, “but yes.”

She picked the baby up once again and carried her to her portable crib. Sherlock smirked in wry amusement at what Watson would think of his daughter snuggling against the breast of such a dangerous woman. Then he remembered exactly what kind of woman Mary was and realized that it wouldn’t be so shocking after all. Hmmm. He wondered who would win in a fight between Mary and Irene. Likely Mary, so long as she knew she were under attack. Irene was extremely clever, but seldom lethal. Mary was always lethal and fairly clever. He realized that was the difference between himself and John. He shifted uncomfortably at the thought that John likely had the advantage when it came to an abrupt physical confrontation. No that couldn’t be right.

“Was that really so mystifying,” Irene’s voice cut into his thoughts and he realized with a start that she was sitting in John’s chair, the carrier moved to the floor at her feet. He glanced toward the portable crib and saw that the child was now snoozing peacefully on her stomach. 

“We all have our talents,” Sherlock muttered, taking his customary seat and steepling his hands under his chin to regard the Woman.

“Some things are simply a matter of experiences,” she said. “You’ll get the hang of it. I’m surprised you haven’t compiled reams of material on child-rearing techniques by now.”

“I started to, but John and Mary were unenthusiastic with my attempts.”

Irene laughed. She had a joyful laugh which filled the room and always had the effect of making Sherlock smile. She was fun. Was that what Jim had seen in her too? He composed himself and locked eyes with her. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“A mutual friend told me you wanted to invite me to dinner with the two of you,” she said, her eyes glinting and sly smile curling.

Sherlock deflated. “Oh.”

She arched an eyebrow and leaned forward. “Was he mistaken?”

Sherlock looked away, a sinking feeling curling around his gut. “No.”

“You don’t seem enthusiastic about the prospect. Was this his idea or yours?”

“Mine,” Sherlock sighed forlornly.

“Well you certainly know how to make a girl feel wanted,” she said, a tease in her tone, but a small bite hiding underneath.

“Sorry. I think I might have screwed that up.”

“How did you do that?”

“I want too much.”

“And that is?”

Sherlock ran his hands over his face. “It doesn’t matter now.”

Irene laughed and flopped back into the worn plush chair. “If you say so.”

At the first feeling of flush, Sherlock stood up abruptly and muttered, “I’ll put the kettle on.” He was relieved when she didn’t reply or move to stop him. 

They say that watched pots never boil, unfortunately that is not the case. It seemed that Sherlock’s dread of having to engage in this line of conversation added fuel to the fire of the teapot and in no time it was mocking him with its whistle. He let it go on for longer than necessary, until such a delay might seem suspicious, then placed the tea-set on the tray and returned, setting it down beside John’s empty chair. Irene stood by the crib rubbing the slightly fussing baby’s back. “I’m flattered,” she said. “I hear you only do that for special company.”

Sherlock filled both cups then proceeded to fix his tea, leaving Irene’s plain, no sugar or milk, as he deduced she preferred. “Company which doesn’t bore me, yes.” He took his seat and took a sip, crossing his legs and staring into the distance in silence.

Irene joined him once the baby had quieted down again and took a sip from her cup. She smiled as she set it down again, not a smudge of lipstick to be seen as she set the saucer back to the tray. “Perfect. Aren’t you a talented domestic when you put your mind to it? I’d love to see you in a maid’s uniform.”

Sherlock choked on his tea and set the cup aside, dabbing at his lip. 

“A little too close to home,” she teased.

“What exactly has he told you about our arrangement,” Sherlock growled.

“Oh. Was that part of it?” She grinned, her perfect white teeth gleaming. “I have all sorts of naughty images in my head now.”

“They are undoubtedly inaccurate,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Do you want them to be?”

Sherlock stared at her, mouth agape. Then he narrowed his eyes. “What do you want?”

“I was checking up on my supposed dinner reservation. But I suppose it’s canceled.” She crossed her long legs and took another sip from her tea. “That’s disappointing.”

“You prefer women anyway.”

“I prefer smart. It just so happens women more often fit that category than men.” She paused, then added with sparkling eyes, “Well most men.”

“That’s why you slept with him,” Sherlock snapped.

Irene’s eyes widened. “Oh. Oh my.” She burst into laughter. “That’s adorable. You’re jealous.”

Sherlock huffed. “Of course not.”

“You are,” she laughed. “Oh come now. Don’t pout. It’s perfectly normal.”

“I’m not normal.”

Irene set her face into a serious mock scowl and sat up straight. “No of course not. You’re not even human.”

“You got the answer you came for. You can leave.”

“I couldn’t possibly until I’ve finished my tea. It would be rude.”

A small smile quirked at the edge of Sherlock’s lips. 

“Let’s play a game,” she said, balancing her saucer on her leather-clad thigh. 

Sherlock quirked his head toward her. “What kind of game?”

“We take turns asking questions.”

“And the answers must be truthful?”

“Of course.”

“And if one of us lies?”

Irene shrugged. “Then the one who catches the other in a lie is the winner.”

“Boring.”

“And gets a favor of the other.”

“Any favor?”

Irene grinned. “Any favor.”

“I go first,” Sherlock said, leaning forward.

Irene nodded her head, in ascent.

“Do you love him?’

“No. I find him fascinating, dangerous, and beautiful, but I am not, nor have I ever been in love with him.” She set her saucer aside and mirrored Sherlock’s posture. “My turn. Are you ready?”

Sherlock nodded, internally bracing himself for the obvious retort.

“If you are so possessive of him, why did you ask to include me?”

Not what he expected and that threw him for a moment. “I thought you’d ask me if I loved him.”

She laughed. “Oh that’s obvious. Now answer my question or forfeit.”

Sherlock sighed. “I think you know I’ve been intrigued by you. And you know how I feel about him. So initially I thought the two of you together would be stimulating.”

“Stimulating?” Irene giggled. “You mean you’d find it arousing?”

“Yes. And that’s two questions.”

Irene’s smile flattened, but the mirth remained in her eyes. “Okay. Then ask two.”

“You knew him when he was much younger?”

“Yes,” she answered. “We both were.”

“What was he like when you first met him?”

Irene’s eyes unfocused a moment, memories clearly there before her eyes. Sherlock wished he could somehow hack into that feed, watch the images flashing through her mind as she relived them. After a moment she said, “Childish, innocent and harmless on the outside. Inside a ravenous, raging, brilliantly devious mad wolf.”

“He’s always been mad?”

“Ah-ah. My turn.”

Sherlock snorted and flopped back in his chair. “Fine.”

“What’s the problem between you two right now?”

Sherlock paused. How could he put this? “I asked too much of him.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I want him more than he wants me,” Sherlock snapped, bristling at the sting of putting it into words.

“Oh poor baby,” she laughed. “You’ve got it bad for him, don’t you?”

“My turn,” Sherlock growled. 

“Sorry. Go on then,” Irene said, centering herself.

“How long has he been with Moran?”

“Jealous of everyone, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock hummed. “And that’s two questions again.”

Irene’s eyes widened a moment, then she relaxed. 

“I believe he met Sebastian a year after he first engaged you. I think he enjoyed the symmetry in finding his own version of John. And your second question?”

Sherlock paused. It wasn’t an insignificant amount of time, but not as long as Sherlock had originally presumed. So the lonlieness he’d seen when he’d first met Jim at the pool, that had been real. By the time they had their showdown on the roof, it had only been a little over a year, not long enough to form a real bond. Which meant the bulk of their relationship and attachment, if there was an attachment, had been after the fall.

“Your second question,” Irene repeated, examining him closely. Closer than he would have liked. 

“Do you know how he feels about me?”

“I presume since you used Seb’s name, that big brother isn’t watching. Are we avoiding using his name because it’s easier for you then?”

Sherlock tensed. “It’s my turn. Answer the question.”

Irene slid from her seat and crossed the short distance between them. She put one knee on the seat and leaned over Sherlock, stroking his cheek with one finger. “I have suspicions, but I don’t know for certain. You’ve captured his attention, that’s for certain, but does he want you the way you want him to? I honestly don’t know. Do you want me to teach you how to seduce James Moriarty?”

Sherlock looked up at her and swallowed thickly. “Yes.”

She reached past him to the notepad on the table, her skin brushing past him, the perfume on her neck filling his nostrils as her body pressed close to his. His heartbeat hammered in his ears as she scribbled quickly on the pad. The rip of the paper jolted him back to his senses. 

Irene pressed the paper into his hand as her lips pressed against his ear. “Text him this time and address.”

Sherlock glanced down the paper. It wasn’t a hotel. At least that was something. Irene’s lips pecked his cheek and he snapped back to attention to find her smiling down at him. “Looks like we both win.”

She stepped back, picking up her coat and swinging it over her should with more elegance than should have been legal. “I look forward to dinner,” she said with a wink. “I do hope you’ll both be able to attend.”

With that, she was out the door, leaving Sherlock staring at the void of her wake.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irene Adler x Sherlock Holmes x Jim Moriarty

This time, Sherlock arrived early. Irene’s flat was a minimalistic, high modern design, sparse, chic, and comfortable. Glancing around the crisp white walls and steel accents, the white classic furniture, the floor to ceiling window, a fifth-floor view of the street covered by heavy cool grey drapes, it was obvious she hadn’t been occupying the space long, nor did she intend to linger. Just passing through then. Much like tonight, he supposed. 

“He’s running late,” Irene said as she took his coat for him and hung it up in the hall closet. She was dressed in a form hugging white linen dress, the kind that traced her curves, but never stretched too thin. Impeccably tailored, ending just a few inches above the knee, had she thrown on a business jacket she wouldn’t have looked out of place among Londoners during the morning rush. Just another business woman. He supposed that was precisely what she was. Even tonight, despite her curiosity.

“I doubt he’s coming,” Sherlock said, wandering to the stainless-steel kitchen and tracing his finger along the rim of the glass ice bucket holding an open bottle of red wine. 

“Hush.” Irene flipped over two of the glasses and filled each half way with ruby red liquid. She handed him one of the glasses with a refined elegance. 

Sherlock’s gaze followed her long legs down to elegant clear shoes. Like glass slippers. “Admiring the view,” she teased.

“Not a very practical choice of refreshments considering your décor.” He bypassed the outstretched glass and took the one she held away from him.

She smiled at his distrust and let him take it. She took a sip from her glass, then took his hand, dipping the glass to take another sip from his cup. She met his gaze and winked. “If I was going to drug you, I’d offer outright,” she said. “I could drug Jim if you want? He makes adorable noises when he’s truly intoxicated.”

Sherlock smirked, swirling the wine in his glass before taking a sip. “I’m surprised he let you get away with that alive.”

“I am too,” she said, turning on her crystal-clear heels and sauntering toward the lounge with a jaunty click to her heels. She glanced over her shoulder before taking a seat. “I suppose that was part of the fun.”

“For who?”

She shrugged, a flirtatious shrug of her slim shoulders. “Take your pick.” She gave him a wink. “Though that’s the fantasy we’re indulging tonight. Isn’t it?”

Sherlock joined her, feeling awkward as took a plush seat across from her. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

Irene crossed her legs and leaned against her hand, her index finger tapping against her temple as she considered him. “Because of me?”

“No.”

She grinned. “Because of you?”

Sherlock huffed. 

“Why,” she asked, leaning forward, looking more like his therapist than potential sexual encounter in the moment. Though when he stopped to consider it, in a way, that too was what she was, a sex therapist.

“I blackmailed him into being my lover,” Sherlock admitted with a sigh.

“Oh I very much doubt that,” she said.

“He wanted Moran rescued. I agreed to the job if he would be my lover for a year.”

“And he accepted.”

“He didn’t want to.”

“Hmmm…” She tapped a finely manicured nail against her bottom lip as she looked at Sherlock. “I’ve never known Jim to ever do something he didn’t want to do.”

“You don’t understand,” Sherlock said.

“That you’re manipulating him?”

“Yes,” Sherlock snapped. This was a bad idea. Stupid. What was he thinking? 

“Did you ever stop to consider that it might be the other way around?”

Sherlock tensed. “What?” He looked at her bewildered. “Of course not. That’s absurd.”

Irene laughed, taking another sip of her wine. “Oh you are so innocent.” Sherlock bristled and she held out an elegant hand. “Don’t look like that, I’m simply offering you an alternative hypothesis to consider.”

“He’s counting down the hours until he’s free of me.”

“Literally? Out loud?”

“Yes,” Sherlock grumbled.

Irene’s laughter tinkered through the room. 

“Stop laughing at me.”

“I’m sorry dear. It’s the situation, not you. I think you are being very cute.”

“Jim doesn’t like cute,” he grumbled.

“No. Jim’s like you and me. He likes danger. He likes intrigue. He likes things which are morally on the dark side of gray. Things and people that aren’t boring.”

Sherlock blinked at her. “And you’re saying I’m not giving him any of those things.”

“I’m saying that you’re giving him devotion and adoration and fear. He can get that from anyone.”

“I don’t fear him.” 

She gave him a pointed look. “Just take a moment to consider your strategy here. You’re approaching this like he’s John. He’s not John.”

“I know he’s not John. Of course I know that!”

“Ooh. Touched a sore point there, did I?”

“This was a stupid idea,” Sherlock said, setting his glass down harder than he meant to and standing to leave. 

He froze in his tracks when he saw Jim open the door. He was a specter blocking his path in a trim black on black suit, hair slicked back and dark eyes fixed on a phone, furiously typing. “Be with you in a moment,” he drawled, without sparing either of them a glance.

Sherlock looked back at Irene like a deer caught in headlights. She stood up and gave him a kind smile, patting his arm as she passed him to approach the (former?) criminal. She stopped in front of him and slid a single finger under Jim’s chin, tilting his face up to meet her gaze. “Don’t be rude,” she purred. 

Jim’s focus was purely on her and his face slid into a cocky sly smile. “What are you going to do about it bitch?”

Irene’s hand moved like lightening, slapping across Jim’s face with a loud crack that swung the dark man’s head down with surprising force. He paused there a moment, then slowly tilted his head up, rubbing his jaw slowly, but the spark in his eyes was all fire. “Are we starting already?”

Irene plucked the phone from Jim’s hand and turned, her heels clicking as she sauntered away from him. Jim stared a hole into her back a moment, before following her with keen intensity, like a sleek dangerous thing stalking its prey. Without looking back, Irene seemed to know it, she gave Sherlock a knowing wink as she dropped the phone into the melting ice of the glass bucket. 

Jim went deathly still. “You have a deathwish,” he said in that soft dangerous way Sherlock loved.

Irene glanced back at him unfazed. “Behave. You were snubbing my guest.”

Jim’s dark eyes slid over to Sherlock. He’d known he was there, of course he did, but had ignored him until now intentionally. “Sherlock,” he said in dull acknowledgement. 

Sherlock straightened, nodding slightly. “Moriarty.”

Jim’s eyes widened and he began stalking toward Sherlock. “Oh? I’m Moriarty again now, am I?”

Without meaning to, Sherlock took a step backward. Jim glanced pointedly down at his back foot, then met his eyes again, grinning now, all predator as he continued his approach.

Irene’s slim pale fingers slid through Jim’s dark hair, tightened, and yanked the criminal back, throwing him off balance. It shouldn’t have looked as graceful as it did for her to send him tumbling to the pristine pale bamboo floor. Irene planted her heel on Jim’s chest, the clear toe of her shoe butting up under his chin. “It’s a little early for you to be naughty,” she cooed down at him, radiating a pure confidence which Sherlock envied.

Jim’s pink tongue slipped between his lips, unabashedly licking the tip of her shoe in a single slow stripe. “Like you’d have it any other way,” he purred back, defiant in his gaze, locked only on her. 

Sherlock shivered at the picture of the two of them, Irene in her pristine curving white standing over Jim’s slim black form was the stuff of fantasy. It’s what he wanted, yin and yang. He wondered if they had known, if they had color coordinated to please him. That thought too sent a thrill toward him. 

“Cheeky,” she said. “You’ll pay for that.”

“Promise,” he hummed, slipping a hand around her foot and holding it to his chest as he sat up, his free hand running up her stockinged calf. 

She laughed when his fingers reached her thigh, fingertips disappearing under her skirt. She leaned down, running her fingers softly along his cheek, then gave him a light playful smack. A gentle parody of the strike she’d given him a few moments ago.

“Tease,” Jim said, rubbing his cheek with a pout.

“Patience,” she purred. “I have plans for you.” She glanced at Sherlock and crooked a finger, beckoning him toward them. 

Sherlock hesitated a moment before he reluctantly took his first step forward. Despite this having been set up at his request, he couldn’t help, but feel a bit like an intruder. Jim’s eyes followed him with razor sharp intensity, but otherwise unreadable. Sherlock was so focused on the man that the yank of his shirt collar surprised him more than it should have and the next thing he knew Irene’s warm soft lips were on his and he was kissing the Woman. He stared at her, wide-eyed, considering all the ways this was a mistake, but her clever tongue curled around his and he forgot his train of thought. He slipped a hand behind her head and kissed back, hungry and eager to impress. 

A sharp tug on his arm and he was torn away, gasping, watching her smile knowingly at him as he fell from her. In the next instant Jim was there and the man growled into his mouth as he ravaged the breath from him. Sherlock straddled Jim’s body, melting into the kiss, squeezing his eyes shut to better register the scent of him. Slim soft fingers slid down his neck, under his shirt, down his stomach, popping the buttons. Jim squeezed his arse, making Sherlock buck against him and in that instant Irene’s fingers curled to rake a sharp set of parallel lines up his torso. Sherlock gasped, breaking the kiss. He had meant to say something, but Irene gripped him by the hair and wrenched his head back to claim his mouth again while Jim slid his shirt off his shoulders and pressed his lips to his chest, licking the angry red path freshly etched into his skin with the same sultry deliberance he’d demonstrated on Irene’s shoe. Sherlock moaned into Irene’s mouth and he felt her lips curve into a smile.

“Oh he’s still so inexperienced,” she hummed with delight. 

Jim nipped at Sherlock’s sternum and he flinched at the bite. “Hasn’t been with a woman yet, but careful. He’s still quick to pop.”

“Is that right Sherlock,” Irene tutted, tapping Sherlock’s nose as Jim cupped his rigid cock, giving him a small squeeze and pulling a gasp out of him. Sherlock’s gaze flitted between the two of them in confusion. Her red lips looked suddenly too red as she said, “Do you have trouble controlling yourself?”

Of course not, is what he wanted to say, but all that came out was the sluggish staccato of “I- I- I-“.

She kissed his forehead. “Aw poor thing.” She looked past him to Jim. “I have a new ring we can use.”

Jim slid up Sherlock’s body, humming thoughtfully. “He’s been begging for one,” he said, then grabbed Irene by the back of the head to kiss her over Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“I don’t beg,” Sherlock finally blurted out, then flushed when their twin eyes turned to him in unison.

A slow smile spread over Jim’s lips and his large dark lashes flitted down Sherlock’s body, then up again. “Oh honey,” he purred. “I promise you will.”

Irene laughed and she pulled Sherlock up by the hair, the sharp sting of pain sending chills racing up and down his spine as she led him, stumbling ungracefully to his feet and down the hallway. Even with just a view of her pristine heels tapping along the wood floor, Sherlock knew where she was leading him. It came as no surprise when he found himself shoved onto a bed. He fell face first into a fluffy steel grey comforter. A loud crack and a sharp sting on his arse jerked him upright and around, snarling like a cornered animal. Irene slid a knee between his legs and curled over him. “Shhhh… just relax. We’ll take good care of you.”

Sherlock’s gaze darted to Jim’s dark silhouette following at a lazy stride down the hallway. Irene glanced back at Jim then smiled at Sherlock. She pressed her lips to Sherlock’s ear, whispering. “It’s just another game for him.” Sherlock tensed, and he jerked away, but Irene pulled him closer. “No, no, no. That doesn’t mean it’s not real. Remember how you felt when you chased James Moriarty, master criminal? Remember that first game. This is just an extension of that. Play the game with him and maybe this time he’ll let you catch him.”

Sherlock exhaled, it couldn’t be that simple, could it? 

Jim emerged from the shadow of the hallway, his dark suit an inky blot floating in the bright light of room. “What are you two whispering about,” he drawled.

Irene slid behind Sherlock and rest her chin on his shoulder, so they were both facing him. “Tell him Sherlock,” she whispered against his ear. 

Sherlock swallowed hard, then steeled himself to meet Jim’s gaze.

“Plotting against you,” he said with cool detachment. 

Jim paused for a microsecond, barely enough to register, but it was there all the same. He shut the door behind him, letting his palm linger on the doorframe before sliding his hands into his pockets and bouncing on the balls of his feet with a manic grin and eyes that burned like black fire. “We’ll see about that,” he sang.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I only intended to write one chapter of this trio. But I'm getting into it so it will be a bit longer than originally planned. 
> 
> IrenexSherlockxJim chapter

It was like being underwater in a diving bell, where reality muffled and the only discernable sound was that of his own breath.  Jim's mouth burned a trail down Sherlock's stomach while Irene's tongue traced a hot line up the nape of his neck.  They bit him simultaneously, Jim below the navel, Irene at the base of his skull and Sherlock's back arched at the twin sources of pain, hissing out "fuck."

Jim smirked up at him, giving his belt a tug, wrenching it free.  "We're getting there sexy."

Sherlock reached out, cupping Jim's face and pulling the man up to capture his mouth.  He was surprised that Jim did not resist, did not protest, his dark eyes just silently assessing him, understanding him in the moments before their lips connected.  Sherlock moaned into Jim's mouth, tilting his head to taste his lips from different angles.   A tug of his trousers snapped him out of it, Irene continuing where Jim left off to completely disrobe him.  He tensed, when he felt Irene behind him part his cheeks, but his effort to glance back was thwarted when Jim grabbed him and kissed him hard.  Irene's tongue slid along his hole and Sherlock jumped, but the two of them held him still between them, Irene bracing his hips, Jim controlling his head.  

When the kiss broke, an embarrassing whine slipped from Sherlock's throat and Jim slid his thumb across the detective's bottom lip with slow purpose.  Irene's tongue pushed into him and Sherlock's eyes went wide, his whole body going tense.  Jim made a show of glancing back to inspect Irene's progress, then leaned in to ghost his lips over the detective's as his palm curled around his erection.  "Having fun," Jim hummed.

"I don't know," Sherlock muttered in a daze, and he didn't.  The sensations were coming too fast, he couldn't keep track, his mind moved faster than his feelings and he couldn't keep up, couldn't process it all.

Jim's eyes narrowed, scanning Sherlock's face.  The next moment he reached past him to tap Irene's shoulder.  She sat back on her heels, her touch suddenly gone from Sherlock's body.  Despite the absence of simulation, Sherlock continued to pant fast and shallow.   Jim pulled him against his chest, massaging his fingers against the back of his neck.  Sherlock pressed his face into the finely woven fabric of Jim's suit, the man's body heat radiated under the surface, his scent filled his nose.  Sherlock inhaled deeply and on the exhale his breath slowed to the rhythm of Jim's steady heartbeat.

"Too much," he heard Irene ask.

"Years quashing everything down.  He's still figuring out his limits," Jim's reply vibrated through his chest, oddly grounding.

Sherlock blushed when he realized the two of them were talking over him, but Jim's fingers steadily massaging his scalp was a pleasant distraction.  He wasn't sure how he was going to ever face them both without burning with shame.  "Sorry," he mumbled into the cloth.

"Hush. You're fine," Irene said.

Jim chuckled, rubbing his back.  "Do you want to stop?"

Sherlock swallowed, then looked up at Jim, his face burning in shame.  "No.  I just need a minute."

"What's his safe word," Irene asked.

"I haven't gotten to that with him yet," Jim replied.

Yet.  Jim said yet.  A weight lifted from him at the implication of that.  Perhaps Irene was right.  It was all just another game.  He just had to learn how to play it properly.  He frowned.   He wasn't currently being a very impressive player, clinging to Jim like this.  He should move, he should speak, he should do something ... sexy.   His brain whirred, the noise in his head rising in volume as he frantically searched for the right thing to do in this situation.

"Relax," Jim's voice whispered against his ear.  "I've got you."  The criminal's fingers glided up and down his spine, sending goosebumps over his skin.  God he loved the smell of him.  He pressed his forehead against Jim's shoulder and enjoyed the new knowledge that Jim, for all his faults, wouldn't let him drown in his own thoughts.  Their voices blurred together, somewhere outside his mind, a distant sound and he closed his eyes, sighing.  Jim's lips brushing his ear broke the spell.

"Did you hear me Sherlock?"  Only Jim's voice stood out among the pastiche of the muted world.

Sherlock's eyes shot open.  He jerked back onto his heels, snapping back into himself.  "What," he said, glancing between them.  Damn.  He'd missed something again.

Irene's eyes crinkled with amusement.  "Oh Jim.  He's going to be a doll in subspace."

Sherlock frowned.  "What did I miss?"

With a single finger, Jim turned Sherlock's face back toward him.  "I need you to pick a safeword for me, dear."

"Ghost," Sherlock said without hesitation.

Jim went completely still, then his lips curled into a wicked smile.  "Did you do your homework for daddy," he purred.     

Sherlock's breath caught, transfixed by the rush of surprising Jim, having his approval.  "Yes," he whispered.

Jim gave him a brief soft kiss.  "I'm flattered."  His dark eyes slid over Sherlock's shoulder a moment, then back to the detective.  "Ready to continue?"

Sherlock was proud that his hands were steady as he twined Jim's tie around his fingers.  "Very," he said in a pant against Jim's mouth, giving the fabric a sharp tug and pulling a laugh from the criminal.

Jim looked back at Irene, and Sherlock followed his gaze, looking over his shoulder, steeling up a renewed confidence.  Irene gaped at them a moment, then composed herself. "You two are a devastating picture," she crooned, crawling toward them.  She had kicked off her shoes at some point, but otherwise, was just as crisp and put together as she had been when Sherlock had first entered the flat. 

Turning back to Jim, Sherlock realized that they both were a little too pristine.  He frowned at the thought, then yanked Jim forward.  "You're wearing too many clothes," he growled and Irene giggled, pouncing to join in as Sherlock began stripping Jim of his perfectly pressed suit.  It took seconds for them to lay him bare and Sherlock immediately pressed his mouth to Jim's bare chest, an overwhelming desire to mark him burning in his veins.  

Jim's laugh at the initial bite morphed into a hiss when Sherlock's confidence grew and he sucked a deep bruise just under the man's collarbone.  Sherlock slid an arm around Jim's waist and pulled him into his lap, grabbing a fistful of the man's pristine hair, for no other reason than to dishevel it, using the leverage to pull him into kiss, bombarding his mouth, hands roaming.  The sharp gasp he earned from Jim dissolved into a genuinely wanton moan, and the victory of it thrummed through Sherlock's entire body.     

Irene slid hands up Jim's back, smirking at Sherlock over the man's shoulder.  She clearly approved and that too fueled Sherlock's confidence.  He reached past Jim to slide his fingers behind her head and slipped the pin holding her hair in the immaculate upsweep.   Long dark curls tumbled down her back, a lock falling charmingly over Jim's shoulder.  "I've always wanted to do that," he admitted, and her eyes twinkled.  He pulled her forward and softly, reverently kissed her.   His hand slid down her back and he tugged at the zipper of her dress.

That earned his hand a sharp smack and Jim laughed, glancing back at her a moment before wrapping his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and nipping at the lobe of his ear.  "Oh you're in trouble now Sherl.  No one undresses the woman unless she orders them to."

Irene grinned, slipping off the bed and reaching behind her to unzip the white dress.  It slid down the curves of her body to pool at her feet, revealing the white lace bra with matching panties and garter belt.  Silk stockings fringed with a matching lace pattern hugged her thighs.  "If you're good Jim, I might let Sherlock remove my brassier with his teeth."

While Sherlock stared transfixed, Jim slid behind him, draping an arm over Sherlock's shoulder so his fingertips could play along his chest.  "I'm sharing him," Jim hummed, looking her over.  His free hand snuck around to grab Sherlock by the balls and give him a squeeze, pulling a gasp from him.  "That's about as good as I get honey."

"Liar," she cooed and the information laced in that simple exchange spoke volumes for Sherlock which piqued his interest.

"Those in glass houses, Ms. Adler," Jim warned, his voice going very soft. One hand slid up Sherlock's throat to brace his chin, guiding him up and stretching out his body, while the other hand wrapped around his cock and began to stroke him.   

Her eyes flicked over Sherlock and Jim's hand increased in speed.  Sherlock jerked, but Jim pulled him back against him, his hand still firmly bracing under his chin.  "A voyeur like you could never resist a glass house," she purred back.

Sherlock's breath stuttered as Jim increased the intensity.  He was rapidly jerking him off now.  It was almost like he was trying to make him cum quickly.  "Too fast," Sherlock whispered.

Irene arched an eyebrow.  "That's not the safeword dear."

Jim continued, the wet sucking slap of his hand working Sherlock's cock making the detective feel obscene and exposed.  "We should get the first one out of the way.  You'll pop to quick otherwise and then what fun would you be."

Sherlock's face burned.  "No," he whimpered.

Irene leaned in and tapped Sherlock's nose.  "Still not the safeword dear."

Sherlock whined, wriggling a bit in Jim's gasp, but pulled instantly back into the position the criminal wanted him in.  "Be a good boy, while I milk you," Jim crooned.  "You're useless unless we take care of this."

"Show off," he growled. He felt the blush on his cheek spread down his neck.  Jim's thumb swirled over the head of his cock and he gasped.  In the next moment, his entire body jerked and he was coming despite himself, coating Jim's hand and adding another layer of slick to the slowing motion of the man's hand.   He fell back against his chest. Though nothing in their position had changed, the way he was braced up by Jim's hand now felt supportive rather than controlling. 

"Oh, he likes it when you back him in a corner Jim.  When you embarrass him," she hummed, almost analytical in her assessment.  He was a specimen on display to her expertise. She traced Sherlock's panting lips with her index finger, her red lips inches from his right eye.  "Is that why I'm here Sherlock?  Do you need me to see Jim own you?"

"That's not the only reason," Sherlock whispered, his tongue darted out and he captured the finger, sucking it into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it, as his eyes roamed over her.

"Such a wicked boy," she whispered back, pushing and pulling her finger from Sherlock's mouth, watching him suck.  He held the attention of both of them for several minutes as he fellated her finger, letting her tease additional digits past his lips and devoting his full attention to lavishing each with relish.  Having the full attention of two intense minds such as theirs was heady.    

She pulled away suddenly, leaving Sherlock's mouth shockingly empty.  "You're an idiot if you let this one go Jim," she mused.  Her eyes darted up to meet the criminal's with a mischievous twinkle.  

Jim instantly tensed, sensing the game she was playing.  He huffed.  "He's not mine to let go of.  I'm his."  He grabbed a fistful of Sherlock's hair and yanked his head back.  "For now," he added, giving Sherlock a shove forward to the point where he stumbled into Irene's lap.

Sherlock shot up and opened his mouth to retort, but Irene grabbed him and made a show of kissing him.   With his back turned to Jim, his head clearly blocking the view of her lips, she formed the words 'wait' with slow purpose against his own.  He met her eyes and nodded.  Then she draped an arm around Sherlock's shoulder and extended one stockinged leg toward Jim, planting her toe against his sternum and shoving him back.  "Oh, is that how it is," she crooned.  "Well then you aren't really sharing him with me then, are you?  It's the other way around."

Jim tilted his head, haughty as he huffed.  "This is boring."

"Oh, here we go.  Never know when you're going to switch on me Jim."  She leaned over conspiratorial and spoke in a low whisper Jim was certain to hear.  "Sherlock, your boy is being a brat."  In the back of his mind, Sherlock absorbed the data of her body language.  She was completely unfazed, by Jim's shift in attitude.  Like she had expected it. "You should discipline him for that," she purred.

Sherlock looked from Jim to Irene back to Jim again.  He swallowed thickly.  Shit.  Jim's defenses were up again.  He was pissed.  This was a bad idea.  He looked to Irene, terror stricken, silently pleading for her to stop.  She was going to scare him off.    

She clearly understood, but she only tutted as she tapped Sherlock's chin. "Don't fret dear.  I know it's an overwhelming prospect with such a very naughty thing like Jim, but it has to be done.  I'll teach you."  She slid from the bed, leaving Sherlock exposed and alone as he faced a scowling Jim Moriarty who seemed to be trying to stab him with his dark eyes.  

A black leather collar plopped suddenly into Sherlock's lap and a loud crack made him jump.   Irene stood tall and proud beside the bed.  In her hands, she held an obscenely knotted leather switch which she cracked into her palm again for effect.   "Off you go then, Sherlock."   

"I – I," he fumbled, holding the collar in his hands and glancing back at Jim who had gone stone-faced.

One corner of Irene's red lips curved dangerously.  "Don't be shy," she purred.  "He puts on a good front, but underneath all that he's hoping you'll tear him apart.  Aren't you Jim dear?"

Jim's rolled his head, his eyes slipping shut.  "Get on with it."

"That –."  Sherlock cleared his throat and Irene grinned at him with approval.  "That's not an answer Jim," he said, deep and clear.  "Do you want me to punish you?"

Jim's eyes slipped open and he saw in the middle of that cool stillness, something burned deep.  "Yes," he hissed.

Irene gave the switch in her hand a sharp crack.  "Then class is in session."


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IrenexSherlockxJim  
> Threesome  
> BDSM  
> Sub!Jim

The black leather collar around Jim’s throat was soft and slick to the touch. It fit him like it had been made for him, the width and length of the band was in perfect proportion to his slim form. The single ring hanging at the base was titanium plated with platinum. Ostentatiously expensive, despite the simplicity of the design. Sherlock traced the line where the hand stitched rim met the warmth of Jim’s pale skin, admiring the aesthetic contrast and marveling at the way the man’s head hung down, demure and deceptively submissive. His body shook as he was tugged from behind and Sherlock’s trance broke to find Irene pulling the last of the binds around the leather arm restraints she’d put Jim in, a single sheath of leather trapping both of Jim’s arms securely behind him. It too seemed to be tailored specifically to the criminal’s measurements.

“Yes,” Irene said. 

Sherlock tilted his head. “Yes, what?”

She pulled two straps from the arm binding up to Jim’s collar and attached them to the ring with metal clasps. “They are both custom made,” she said, then glanced up Sherlock with a smile. “You were wondering.”

Sherlock pouted. “I wasn’t,” he huffed.

“Liar,” Jim drawled softly, looking up at him through his disheveled hair. “You’re also dying to know how long she’s had them and how often we’ve used them.”

“Quiet,” Sherlock said, grabbing the ring at Jim’s throat and tugging him forward. That only earned him a delighted laugh from the man. 

Irene tapped the back of Jim’s legs with her leather switch and without preamble, Jim dropped to his knees on the bedroom floor in front of Sherlock. The sight of it made Sherlock forget to breathe. It edged uncomfortably close to one of his deeper fantasies with this man. Considering how well they were reading him now, he briefly worried the two of them might know it.

“I think it was about eight years ago, wasn’t it Jim?”

“Nine.”

“God. We were babies then,” she laughed. “Haven’t used them in ages and ages though.” Irene danced around Sherlock, tracing a finger over his back. She bit the lobe of his ear and whispered. “You can take them home with you if you want, Sherlock dear. A gift from me. Would you like that?”

Jim looked up and smirked up at Sherlock, as if daring him to accept. Sherlock swallowed thickly, momentarily at a loss for words, before finally muttering. “That’s very kind of you.”

“It’s wasted on him,” Jim sneered. “Too clumsy.”

Sherlock scowled at Jim a moment, then turned to Irene. “Does it come with a matching muzzle?”

Irene laughed. “I’ll put you in touch with someone who can make one for you,” she said, leaning down to ruffle Jim’s hair affectionately. “You’re just getting yourself into trouble Jim.”

Jim jerked his head away from her touch and snorted derisively. “So you keep promising,” he grumbled.

“Masochist,” Sherlock mused. That was, surprising. Sort of.

“Half right,” Irene said. 

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Oh.” He looked at her a little bewildered. “He’s never physically hurt me.”

Irene smiled. “He likes you.”

“No I don’t,” Jim growled. 

Sherlock squatted down to Jim’s eye level. “Then why haven’t you indulged yourself on me?”

Jim’s lips curled cruelly. “You’re too soft,” he hummed. “Weak.” 

Sherlock pushed down the wave of insult which surged in his blood at that. He was silent a moment then pulled Jim forward by the ring in his collar, kissing him hard. “Considerate of you to restrain yourself for my sake,” he said at last against Jim’s lips. 

Jim’s expression was soft and harmless. Which is why it came as such a surprise when he lunged forward and viciously bit Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock fell back on his tailbone, hissing in pain as he touched the gash at his mouth, blood glazing his fingertips. He stared at Jim in shock, but the man looked back at him without any expression, once again soft and harmless.

Irene’s switch cracked loud across Jim’s shoulders. He jerked, back arching as sat up on his knees. His eyes slid shut, his face still and serene. He didn’t make a sound. 

“Don’t provoke him unless you’re prepared for that kind of thing,” Irene said, pacing around the criminal and considering him.

Sherlock licked the blood on his lips and pulled his game face back on. “I think any muzzle will do tonight,” he said. 

Irene paused, grinning at him with approval. “That’s the spirit,” she said and her approval of how he handled it renewed Sherlock’s courage. She turned her back on them to rifle through a bookshelf, then tossed Sherlock something light, thin, and glinting. “Establish a non-verbal signal. He usually just flips me the bird”

“Classy,” Sherlock hummed, catching the strip with one hand and turned it over. It was a simple device. A metal bit, obviously designed to hold a mouth partially open, connected to thin leather which could be secured behind the head. Irene stopped behind Jim and yanked his head back by the hair. The back of his head rest against her pelvis and he looked back up at her with a sly smile. Sherlock glanced up at the exact moment that the criminal winked up at her, clearly pleased with himself. He had to resist the urge to grab Jim and throw him over his lap for a proper throttling right then and there. First thing was first. “Considering your current predicament, you’ll need to pick a new signal for me to stop.”

The criminal snickered, looking Sherlock up and down with disdain. “Why? You’re never going to see me use it Sherlock.”

“Humor me.”

“No.”

“Then we’re stopping now.” 

Jim huffed. “Fine.” He shook his head back and forth rapidly, like a toddler being obstinant. He looked back at Sherlock dully and drolled, “Obvious enough for you?”

“It fits you,” Sherlock said, giving the leather strap a snap between his hands.

Jim opened his mouth as soon as Sherlock approached with the bit. His dark eyes slid over to pierce into him as he waited with the patient obedience of a well-trained pet. Sherlock paused for only a moment, then shook his head and slipped the bit into his mouth, securing the straps snuggly behind his head. “Eager,” he said.

Irene pushed Jim’s head down with a shove. “You have no idea,” she said. “He’s the most fascinating little painslut I’ve ever played with.” She pulled Sherlock close to her, pressing her lips to his with surprising soft sensuality. “But be careful sexy. He turns on a dime.”

“That’s part of the fun,” Sherlock said. He ran his fingers through Irene’s hair, kissing her again. The heat of her body pressed against his own, the touch of her lips, the way Jim was crushed between them, it was a strange, but fantastic sensation. At least it was until Jim head butt him in the groin.

Irene laughed when Sherlock stumbled back, clutching himself and groaning. He glared at Jim who stuck his tongue through the bit in his mouth and slid it over the metal rim in his teeth. Irene raised her switch, but Sherlock held out a hand. “Wait.”

The two of them froze and looked at him with surprise. Sherlock savored the moment. He straightened then stalked toward Jim, grabbing his chin, and pulling his face up to look at him. “Get up and lean over the bed,” he said, steady and stern. 

Jim blinked rapidly as if he were trying to process how seriously to take the command. His eyes began to slide toward Irene, but Sherlock tightened his grip, pulling his attention back. “No. I’m telling you. Do it.”

Irene remained silent, shooting Sherlock an approving smile and simply waiting expectantly for the criminal to comply. Jim only paused a moment longer. He finally, awkwardly, got to his feet and stumbled toward the bed. He draped himself over the edge of the bed, giving them both a fine view of his bare arse. 

“Might I suggest -,” Irene began, but Sherlock held up a hand, assessing Jim’s position with scrutiny.

“I want a crop. Do you have one?”

“Oh please,” she said. She swung open her closet and pulled out a tie rack from which a dozen different impact play instruments hung. “Take your pick.”

Sherlock’s lips quirked in a slight smile. He ran his fingers over the line of various handles, then settled on one of the thickest, longest crops in the lineup. He turned it over in his hand, admiring the weight to it. 

Irene hissed through her teeth. “In a giving mood, are you?”

Sherlock hesitated, a tinge of uncertainty creeping up. “Too much for him?”

Irene chuckled, shaking her head. “Oh no. He can take it.” She paused, looking at Sherlock with concern. “If you can take inflicting it on him.”

Sherlock glanced back at Jim. Though he hadn’t moved, it felt like he was practically vibrating with impatience. “That’s not a problem,” he said, stalking straight toward the man, winding back his arm and with his full strength, striking the criminal’s backside like he were a corpse on the slab. 

Jim entire body jerked and he audibly sucked in air through the bit. It was gratifying to surprise him. Sherlock lifted his arm again, but Irene caught it, meeting his eye. He hesitated. Shit. Was he doing this wrong? But Irene smiled at him and covered his hand with her own, guiding the crop down to slide the leather thong between Jim’s thighs with slow sensuality. When the man visibly relaxed, she removed her hand and gave Sherlock a nod. He wound up again and with a backhand swing struck Jim again with his full force, pulling another satisfying gasp from the man.

He glanced at her briefly, then went back to sliding the tip softly along the curve of Jim’s spine. She gave an approving nod and went to sit beside Jim, running her hands through the criminal’s hair. “Having fun Jim-dear?” 

Sherlock struck him again and his whole body shook with the impact. He saw Jim raise his head to look at her and Sherlock struck him again, making him jerk. Irene’s eyes slid over to Sherlock and she smiled knowingly. He was doing something right. He reached out and traced the angry red lines crisscrossing Jim’s buttocks with the pads of his fingers, marveling at how hot to the touch the skin had become. He couldn’t resist leaning down and pressing his tongue against it, tracing one of the deeper shades down Jim’s thigh. 

Jim’s shallow breathing caught his attention and he paused to glance up to Irene.

“How are you doing,” she said to Jim, teasing the fringe of hair at the criminal’s temple. 

Jim made a disgruntled bratty noise and Sherlock straightened, laying into him with the crop until Jim finally cried out. Irene tutted, patting Jim’s head. “Congratulations. You managed to provoke your blushing virgin into giving you what you want.”

Sherlock panted raggedly, collecting himself. Jim’s entire arse was an angry shade of red. There would be deep bruises along the back of the man’s thighs within a few hours. He hadn’t even begun to process how he felt about that, when Jim moaned, shifting his body and sticking his bum out for more punishment. Good God. Irene hadn’t been flippant when she’d described Jim’s predilections.

“Told you,” she sang, clearly amused by the look on Sherlock’s face. 

Sherlock lifted the crop again with uncertainty. He hadn’t pulled his strikes and he knew from his experiments on corpses what his strength was capable of doing to flesh. On the other hand, Jim wanted more and he hated to disappoint the man.

Irene gave no signal to stop. Instead she seemed keenly interested in what Sherlock would do. It felt like a test. He bit his lip and gave Jim another viscous strike, the sound echoing from the walls of the room. Jim groaned, his chest arched off the bed. He was still a moment, panting raggedly. Irene had guided his head to rest in her lap and she caressed the back of his neck. Amazingly, Jim arched himself up for more still.

Sherlock shifted on his feet, growing uneasy. He bit his bottom lip and looked to Irene, a bit lost. Once more she said nothing, simply watching, and waiting. He winced and lifted his hand, ready to strike again, but before he could bring the blow down she finally lifted a hand.

“He’ll let you beat him to death, if you don’t trust your gut on when to stop,” she said gently.

It was relief to let the crop drop to hang to his side. Jim whined in disappointment, but Irene just lightly pat his cheek. “Hush you,” she cooed. She unfastened the strap behind his head and pulled the bit away from Jim’s mouth, then she crooked a finger for Sherlock to come closer. 

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but the minute he caught sight of Jim’s cheek pressed against Irene’s thigh, mouth slack, skin flush, dark eyes dilated and unfocused in a lustful daze, all insecurity evaporated. Jim looked adorable. He cupped Jim’s face in his hands and guided him up, marveling at how pliantly the criminal complied, how soft and open his lips were when Sherlock kissed him. Irene helped guide Jim into Sherlock’s lap and while he kissed up the man’s jaw, she unfastened the arm restraints from behind. 

When Jim’s arms were free, they floated up to rest around Sherlock’s shoulder. “Beautiful,” Sherlock murmured against Jim’s lips, marveling at this moment, having Jim so soft and willing in his arms. No artifice here, no masks. Jim was raw and open in a way Sherlock had only ever fantasized about. Irene smiled at him and stepped away a moment.

Sherlock inhaled Jim’s scent as he teased his fingers along the rock-hard erection pressed against his stomach. Jim lifted his chin in an almost drowsy daze, body arching in Sherlock’s arms, moaning to his touch. “Oh god,” Sherlock moaned, pushing Jim down and kissing down the criminal’s stomach to wrap his lips around his cock, gratified to hear the man cry out as he sucked the length with abandon. 

He got lost in the way Jim writhed under him, moaning incoherently. Irene returned, sitting beside Jim’s head and handing Sherlock a bottle of lubricant. Jim’s cock slipped from Sherlock’s swollen lips as he hesitated at the offer. He wanted to. He very much wanted to, but then again. “He’s badly bruised,” he whispered.

“That will only make him love it all the more.” She traced her pristinely manicured nail along Jim’s panting lips, considering him. “He’ll stay like this for you longer.” 

Sherlock licked his lips, running his palm along Jim’s heaving stomach. “Jim. Ask me to fuck you.”

Jim’s head lolled and his eyes seemed to have difficulty focusing. 

“Jim.” Sherlock guided his face to look at him.

Finally, Jim seemed to focus for a moment. His eyes slipped shut and he sighed, “please.”

Irene handed Sherlock the bottle with a smile. “Very good,” she said and Sherlock grinned at the praise. 

He opened the bottle and dripped an overly generous amount of lubricant between Jim’s legs straight from the bottle. His cock twitched when the cool liquid made contact and his breath quickened. Sherlock wasted no time working his fingers into the man, pulling his cock back into his mouth and making him gasp and writhe. 

“Please,” Jim whined again, back arching off the bed when Sherlock thrust his fingers in and out of him.

“I don’t think I could ever get tired of hearing him say that,” Sherlock mused and Irene laughed, running her fingers over Jim’s face. 

“Don’t give him time to come out of it,” she said. “It’s not every day you’ll get him to this state.”

Sherlock smirked at her. “You want to see me fuck him.”

She grinned mischievously. “You have no idea how much,” she purred.

“Take your knickers off.”

Irene arched a brow. He’d clearly surprised her. “Why should I?”

Sherlock pressed his fingers into Jim down to the knuckle, making him groan. He met Irene’s gaze a steady heat. “I want to watch him lick you.”

Irene gaped. He’d really surprised her. Seeing it made Sherlock’s cock throb. She shot him another uncertain look, then stood up and let the thin strip of fabric drop to the floor. The short-cropped triangle of her dark pubic hair was a stark contrast against her pale skin. She planted a single knee on the mattress and Sherlock picked Jim up and flipped him onto his stomach. Jim made a soft squeak of surprise as his hips were lifted and he was manhandled onto all fours. 

Irene glanced at Sherlock, as though making sure he was certain of this, then she positioned herself in front of Jim, her pelvis level with his head. Sherlock gripped Jim’s hips hard, pressing his fingers hard into the bruised skin, pulling a gasp from his little masochist. In the next moment he slammed his cock fully into Jim’s slick hole. Jim cried out and Irene grabbed him by the hair, guiding his mouth to her pussy and muffling his next scream when Sherlock snapped his hips once.

“Make Irene feel good Jim,” Sherlock crooned, planting a kiss between his shoulder blades. “I want to see you both cum.” 

It was still surprising when Jim complied, burying his face into the woman’s pussy with complete abandon, making her gasp. Sherlock watched a moment in stunned disbelief as Jim’s lips and tongue clearly worked along the folds of her pink skin, the wet sound of it filling his ears. Irene’s breath caught and Sherlock caught the moment her back first arched into it. 

He reached under Jim and teased his cock as he gave short little thrusts into his willing arse. “James,” he sighed, finally relaxing and enjoying the way the man’s body felt encasing his throbbing cock. Being inside him again was an inexplicable relief. 

Irene moaned and Sherlock opened his eyes. He reached across Jim and grabbed her bra where it dipped between her breasts. He yanked the fabric down and her full soft breasts bounced free. She gasped, gaping at Sherlock a moment before her lips curled into a smirk. “You’re going to pay for that,” she said.

“Later,” Sherlock replied, cupping one of her breasts in his hand and stroking up to her nipple. Irene’s face flushed. She opened her mouth to say something, but Jim pushed his tongue deep into her pussy before sucking hard against her clit and all that came out was a gorgeous moan. 

Jim’s hands snaked up Irene’s sides as he buried his face into his task with abandon. Sherlock rolled his hips, the impact of his hip bones slapping against Jim’s bruised arse pulling moans from the man which vibrated up Irene’s clit. She ground herself harder against Jim’s mouth, her breasts bouncing to the rhythm they three of them fell into as they moved in tandem. 

Like dancing, there’s a point when the body simply moves on its own and the mind seems to fade into the background. Sherlock found that this was much the same, with the bonus of both physical and visual stimulation fueling a hum of pleasure that sang through his blood. He lost track of how long they moved like that before Jim’s groans prompted Sherlock to flip him onto his back and lift his leg over one shoulder, pushing into him deeper and making him gasp. Irene straddled Jim’s face and Sherlock pulled her closer, kissing her, exploring her skin with his lips, sucking at her breasts as he slid his fingers through Jim’s hair, edging him on. 

Irene’s breath came faster and her moans vibrated through her chest. Sherlock’s lips moved to her other breast as he massaged the first. He felt her body begin to tremble, grinding down on Jim’s face as her moans became louder and more desperate. Her fingers clutched in Sherlock’s hair and she pressed his face against her chest. He sucked harder, pushing her to the point of screaming. She cried out with a strangled groan as she finally came, pulling Sherlock’s hair hard before she went slack. She sat back panting, between her legs her pussy was swollen and soaked. Just like Jim’s mouth. 

“Your welcome,” the criminal drawled and Sherlock immediately grabbed him, crushing their mouths together and stealing Jim’s breath. He tasted Irene on Jim’s tongue and Sherlock growled into Jim’s mouth. He dug his fingers into Jim’s hips and began to pound into him, rapidly turning Jim’s chuckle into a whimper.

Irene grinned, teasing her fingers over her clit as she watched Sherlock slam into Jim, pounding him back into submission beneath him, dominating his mouth, pinning his wrists above his head against the mattress with one hand. “Mine,” Sherlock growled against Jim’s mouth each time he wrenched his lips free to gasp for a breathy moan. “I don’t care what you say. You were born to be mine.”

Jim seemed beyond coherence. He moaned, body arching, shuddering with the pain and the pleasure of the assault. His body arched beautifully off the bed as he cried out and came against Sherlock’s stomach. The sight made Sherlock groan. He pressed his forehead against Jim’s chest and thrust hard into him twice more before he finally came inside of him. 

He collapsed on top of him, panting raggedly against Jim’s neck. 

“There are no words to capture how hot that was,” Irene purred. 

Sherlock pressed a kiss to the mark he’d made on Jim’s collarbone when they’d started. He smiled against the bruise when he felt Jim’s fingers lazily thread through his hair. He’d outlasted them both.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irene with mostly Jim/Sherlock  
> Sub Sherlock  
> BDSM  
> Sensory deprivation

Sherlock wasn’t sure when he’d dozed off, but judging from the ambient noise from the street, he estimated the time to be around five in the morning when he awoke wrapped around Jim and holding him tight against his chest. Sherlock lit up when he realized it, lightly pressing his lips to the crown of Jim’s head. The warm disheveled dark hair tickled his nose and the way Jim’s lax body expanded with each breath felt incredible in a way Sherlock had never considered before. Irene had left the room, but he could catch the faint scent of coffee in the air. She had closed the bedroom door behind her, perhaps to avoid waking them, perhaps to provide them privacy. Whatever the reason Sherlock was grateful for the effort. He wanted to savor the moment of having Jim to himself like this.

He didn’t make a sound, staying relaxed and still to avoid waking him like he had in the hotel. It paid off, giving Sherlock nearly an hour of holding Jim soft in his arms, feeling his breath puff against his chest and the intimacy of their bare skin pressed warm and close. When Jim shifted and the pattern of his breath changed, Sherlock’s heart leapt with excitement. The first dim rays of morning light were just filtering through the sheer white curtains when Jim stirred, lifting his head, and barely cracking open his dark eyes. 

Sherlock couldn’t help himself. He immediately took Jim’s face in his hands and kissed him with complete adoration. To his delight, Jim returned the kiss, still soft and pliant in his drowsy state. Then the criminal’s eyes shot open and he pushed Sherlock back. 

“Morning,” he mumbled, throwing off the covers and immediately getting out of bed to head for the adjoining master bath. Sherlock blinked, gaping as he searched for the appropriate words to respond to that. Then he caught sight of the deep purple bruises blooming over Jim’s entire backside and froze. He’d done that. He knew he had, knew to expect it, but it was still shocking to see. He jumped up to follow, but Jim shot him an annoyed look and closed the door in his face. 

“Um… are you okay,” Sherlock said through the door.

“Fine,” came Jim’s voice through the barrier. 

“Are you sure. I could –“

Jim groaned, “Don’t start.”

Sherlock bit his lip. Jim sounded upset. But upset over what they’d done or upset that Sherlock was annoying him at the bathroom again? He couldn’t be sure. So he decided to ask for clarification.

In response, the bathroom door flung open and Jim glared at him with gritted teeth. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but Jim cut him off shouting, “Adler! Babysit him!” Then slammed the door back into Sherlock’s face. 

Sherlock blinked rapidly at the force of the slam. Irene entered, leaning against the doorframe wearing a simple silk robe. “Have coffee with me Sherlock,” she said gently.

Sherlock pouted, giving the door between him and Jim a forlorn look.

Irene tutted. “The sad doggy routine is only cute for so long.”

He wanted to protest that, but realized she was right and with reluctance left the room with her. He plopped down at her kitchen table frowning at the cup of coffee Irene poured for him. 

“You have nothing to be upset about,” she said gently.

“Aren’t I supposed to take care of him after I do that kind of thing to him?”

“You took care of him last night afterward. You did a good job,” she said, settling into the seat across from him and tapping a few keys on her laptop while she took a sip of coffee.

“He pushed me away this morning,” Sherlock grumbled, staring at the dark liquid abyss in his cup and catching his murky reflection.

Irene shrugged. “I told you, he doesn’t get into that state often.” She waved it off casually. “He’s probably regrouping before he faces you again. He’s able to handle losing physical control without batting an eye, but losing mental control is rare for him.”

“Is that why he’s angry?”

Irene’s expression softened, the glow of the computer screen lighting her eyes. “Oh Sherlock. He’s not angry. I promise.”

“He certainly looked annoyed,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Oh! He was definitely annoyed,” she replied, taking a sip from her cup. “But anyone would be to find you pawing at the bathroom door like a needy puppy.”

Sherlock huffed and took a gulp of his coffee. It was black and bitter. “Needs sugar,” he said.

She didn’t look up from her laptop as she gestured vaguely toward the kitchen. “By the espresso machine.” 

Sherlock worked at the coffee in silence and considered Irene’s interpretation. Jim had often chastised him for being too needy. For some reason, Molly’s face sprang to the forefront of his mind. The way she had acted toward him when they’d first met, so desperate for attention. How funny he’d found her efforts. He cringed. Oh. A new paradigm for interpreting his present and his past slammed into place like a ton of bricks. Was that what Jim and Irene saw when they looked at him? The funny man begging to be loved by someone incapable of the emotion. 

Had Molly tried to coerce him into being intimate with her, he would have been far less kind. Not that she would. No, Molly was a good and sane person. He glanced at Irene. No one currently in this flat embodied that definition. This entire situation was a bit not good. He knew that. But he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop.

He returned to the table, stirring his three shades lighter coffee and watching Irene type away. “Would you be up for another go,” he asked casually.

Her eyes shot up at him and she grinned. “Bad boy,” she teased, snapping her laptop shut and giving him her full attention. “What did you have in mind?”

“You said you’d teach me how to seduce him.”

“Oh!” She tapped her bottom lip thoughtfully. “You’ve done it before.”

Sherlock frowned. “When?”

“Every time you played the game together from what I understand.”

Sherlock sighed. “And what exactly did I do when I seduced him before?”

Irene leaned forward over the table. “You weren’t afraid to lose. All cocky and clever, but ready to suffer embarrassment or alienation or death, just to win. A challenge to be met, a prize to be won.”

“I- I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, trying to decipher what solving the case had to do with romantic intimacies. 

“Do you want him to want you when he comes out that door?”

“Yes.”

Irene glanced toward the bedroom. “He won’t let you take control again so soon after last night.”

“I expect he won’t.”

Irene ran her tongue over teeth and considered Sherlock thoughtfully. “You understand that I’m suggesting you submit yourself as his plaything.”

Sherlock said hesitated. Sebastian was Jim’s plaything. What he wanted was something more. He pursed his lips then forced himself to meet her gaze evenly. “I accept that.” 

“Why,” she asked, quickly adding, “I’m not judging dear. Just curious.”

Sherlock swallowed hard, thinking, because I want to see what he’ll do. Instead he said, “Because I’ll enjoy it.”

The smile on Irene’s lips widened slowly. “Good answer,” she said. “Textbook accurate.” She stood up and circled round to him, resting her hip against the table to face him. One finger tapped feather light under his chin, but nonetheless guided his face up toward her. “Curiosity killed the cat they say.”

Sherlock grimaced. Was he that obvious? “I have a few lives left.”

“Oh clever. That’s good. Very good,” she praised, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “You’ll need to be very obedient. Do you think you can handle that?”

“I’m willing to do anything,” he said, looking up at her fingers as they played with his curls. 

“Good boy. I’m rooting for you ,” she said with a light in her eyes. 

Then she abruptly straightened and ordered. “Kneel.

“What are we playing,” Sherlock asked, glancing at the door in confusion. Jim wasn’t out yet.

“Unless you’re using your safeword, the only thing you need to say is yes ma’am or yes sir,” Irene said sharply, her entire posture changing. Her lips curled into a smug smile. “Of course, if you have something clever and wicked to say, I encourage you to let that mouth of yours get you in trouble. Now kneel. On the ground.”

Sherlock slid from his chair and sat on his knees, mimicking the posture Jim had taken the night before. “Like this?”

“Align yourself with the door.”

Sherlock adjusted so that he was directly facing the line of sight to the bedroom door. She pushed down on his head, sending him down on his elbows as well, forehead to the floor, like a supplicant. His face flushed at the thought. 

Irene’s bare feet padded across the flat and Sherlock stole a glance through his hair to try to determine what she was up to. When she returned, he saw her knees rest beside him as she leaned over him. “Naughty,” she cooed, slipping a cool silk padded blind fold over Sherlock’s eyes. “Whatever you can’t control will be taken from you.” 

Sherlock huffed in annoyance. This all seemed a little too trite to be particularly enticing to someone like Jim. A chain dangled by his ear, the cool metal brushed his cheek. “This is a choke collar,” Irene said. “You know how this works?”

Sherlock swallowed. “Yes.”

“I’m going to put it on you. I suggest you avoid struggling.”

Sherlock nodded and the cool metal looped around his neck, snapping into place. The collar hung loose against his throat. It made him slightly nervous. It didn’t hurt, but he knew that if it were pulled, the sensation would be unpleasant. The click of a clasp and a slight shift in the chain, and he could tell that a leash had been attached. 

Sherlock shifted his weight, remembering that Jim had a sadistic side he had yet to see. “Is your plan that I entice him to hurt me?”

Irene’s footfalls crossed the room again. “Are you willing to let him hurt you?”

Sherlock inhaled deeply, steeling himself. “Yes.” This was a far cry from the kind of intimacy he’d had all too briefly with Jim this morning. “Is it always necessary to acquire his attention?”

Irene returned, something long and light dragging beside her. “Not always. Pain isn’t the point of what we’re doing Sherlock. Submission is. This is a simple reframing of the behavior that made you annoy him this morning into something sexier.”

Sherlock frowned. “How are we doing that?”

Irene tapped the top of his head. “Lift your head and open your mouth.”

Sherlock hesitated, then complied. A woven leather handle was shoved between his teeth. It was a whip. A bull whip.

“There. The perfect eager little pet for the criminal mastermind who has everything.” She pat his head like a dog. “Comfy?”

Sherlock blinked rapidly under his blindfold, having trouble catching up. “Yer”.

“Can you picture the way you look right now? What he’s going to see when he finally gets done preening?”

Sherlock’s breath caught at the thought. He nodded slightly.

“Just one more thing,” she said. A plastic cap clicked open and Irene’s fingers caressed the shell of his ear. “I’m going to reduce your hearing as well. Then I’m going to leave you here and go tell Jim I have a present for him.” She flicked his earlobe playfully. “Any ideas what that present is going to be?”

Sherlock inhaled raggedly.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she laughed. 

Her laugh was the last thing he heard. Foam ear plugs were placed into each of his ears and all sound dimmed to the barest range of detectability. He was only able to tell Irene had walked away by the vibration of her footfalls through the floorboards. 

She was gone for a long time. Cut off from his senses, stuck in his own head, it felt intolerably long. He shifted his weight in discomfort and was just considering ripping the blindfold off, when, at last, the vibrations of two sets of bare feet approached him. One of them stopped about a meter away. The second approached him slowly, coming to a stop directly in front of him. 

Warm fingers caressed his cheek. Sherlock knew by the touch they were Jim’s and he turned his face toward them, seeking more contact. But Jim’s touch danced away to slide down his neck, tracing the collar, then traveling down the length of the leash hanging down his chest. 

Sherlock heard the muffled sound of Jim’s voice and Irene’s reply. He could make out a word or two, but not enough to make sense of the conversation. He leaned toward him, drawn to the hint of body heat, but his progress was thwarted by a single finger pressed into the middle of his forehead, pushing him back. Through his muted predicament he heard the criminal’s muffled laughter and he clenched his teeth against the leather handle in his mouth. Part of him still bristled at thought that Jim might find him stupid and the familiar feeling of doubt and frustration welled up within him. He huffed around the handle in his mouth. He wanted to rip the blindfold off and pull Jim down into his arms. He wanted to push the man down and reduce him to a moaning mess again. His body vibrated with want as he sat there, untouched, with no que to how this display was impacting the target of his desire. Then Sherlock remembered, he was supposed to be the target. 

That was the current game. To be the object of desire. He moved forward again, only to feel Jim’s presence retreat just out of reach, instead he felt the whip in his mouth tug lightly. Jim was running his fingers over the length of leather, following it farther away from him. Swallowing his pride, Sherlock finally embraced his role. He dropped his head and whined like the needy pet he was supposed to be. Jim’s movement immediately stopped. 

The leather handle was tugged and Sherlock gratefully opened his mouth to allow it to be pulled away. He felt the impact of it tossed not far from his knee. The leash was snatched and yanked, pulling the links in the choke collar to cut off Sherlock’s breath as it pulled him further up on his knees. He gasped, but didn’t resist, moving as he was bid. He was rewarded with Jim’s lips brushing against his own. Sherlock immediately lunged to try to complete the kiss, but the leash was pulled taut, stopping him short. Jim’s lips then resumed and Sherlock stayed still moaning into them. Jim tapped him on the temple hard. As if he were impatient or annoyed.

Sherlock frowned in concentration. It was an odd response. Jim’s lips returned, moving once more over his own in the exact same way. Then it struck him. Jim’s lips weren’t moving haphazardly. He was forming words silently with his lips. The tap wasn’t punishment, it was admonishment to think. Sherlock concentrated as the pattern began again, eager to impress. His breath stuttered when he had it.

Do. You. Want. To. Play.

“Oh god yes,” he whispered, the sound of his own voice deafening within his skull.

The leash tugged forward, the links of the collar constricted, biting into Sherlock’s flesh. He crawled on hands and knees, scrambling to relieve the pressure, and keep up. He didn’t notice when Jim came to an abrupt halt and his head crashed into the back of the man’s legs.

Disoriented, it took him by surprise when Jim’s hand grabbed his face and pulled him up, guiding him up to his feet. His right hand was lifted above his head and a metal shackle snapped around his wrist. Sherlock’s heart rate skyrocketed when he realized what was happening. Jim must have felt it through his wrist because when he took Sherlock’s left hand, he froze for a moment. Sherlock flinched when Jim’s fingers first brushed his cheek, then he realized Jim was caressing him, soothing him. It took some effort to force himself to relax and let Jim chain him completely, his arms were suspended above his head, the leash to the collar also secured somewhere above him. There must have been a suspension bar in the ceiling because judging from what he could sense of his surroundings, he must have been somewhere in the middle of the room. Through his feet, he felt Jim circle him in a wide radius, confirming his sense hypothesis.

Jim came to a stop directly behind him and stood very still. Sherlock shifted in discomfort, straining to pick up anything, to gather any stimuli. The nothingness went on for an uncomfortably long time. Then pain bloomed sharp across his back and through his ear plugs came the thunderous crack of a bullwhip. Sherlock gasped, stumbling forward, which only served to put pressure on the collar, stealing his breath. He scrambled to straighten himself, his ragged panicked breaths filling his plugged ears. He tensed, bracing himself for another blow, which is why he flinched at the feather light touch which traced down his spine instead. Sherlock whimpered, his body trembled. Then Jim touched his cock and he choked on the desperate moan which erupted from him.

A second pair of hands traced down his arms from behind. Irene. He wasn’t given long to contemplate it. Jim’s thumb circled the head of his cock, then Irene dug her nails in to scratch their way down his back. Sherlock arched backward, rising onto his toes and hissing at the sensation. Jim pulled Sherlock’s collar, bending him slightly forward at the waist. Each of his legs were lightly kicked apart, and he found himself quickly put into a position where his arse was essentially pushed out, as though in offering. 

The two of them switched places, Jim keeping one hand on Sherlock’s stomach as he slid behind him. Irene tapped his nose once playfully, pulling his attention forward. That’s when something cool, hard and slick was pushed abruptly into his arse, snapping his attention back to Jim. Immediately followed by a tight silicone sheath pushed over his cock, vibrating. In the next moment, the toy in his arse began vibrating. Sherlock’s knees began to wobble with the whiplash of it all. He slumped against his binds and moaned pathetically. 

Pain bloomed again across his back and the bullwhip cracked once again. Sherlock jerked, but the sheath worked his length faster and the pain merged with the pleasure. He cried out. Tears welled up in his eyes behind his mask. He wanted to see them. Wanted to hear. It was too much. Too much and not nearly enough. One word and he could end it, but curiosity was the more powerful draw. He bit his bottom lip and found it trembling.

Jim twisted the vibrator inside him, working it in and out of him. The vibrating sheath on his cock worked in counter stroke. Sherlock began to twist and whine in his binds, which only earned him a smack on his bum in chastisement. He tried to still himself, but he could feel himself getting closer. His body shuddered. “Please,” he moaned. 

And all sensation stopped. Both the vibrator and the sheath removed completely from his flesh. It was like coming to a sudden stop while speeding, it made him feel like he was going to topple. He panted raggedly, hanging there with no sight or sound or touch, only the memory of the intensity that had been upon him just a moment ago. When at last he caught back up to himself, he was stuffed and stroked again. They edged him like that forever, bringing him to the brink, then taking it all away. By the fourth time, he was desperate. His cock hung heavy and dripping between his legs and he could feel the tears streaming down his cheeks. “Please Jim,” he whispered, nearly sobbing. “Please.” He wasn’t even sure what he was begging for. 

The chains must have been attached to a pully, because instantly the tension holding his hands above his head was released and Sherlock’s hands fell to his sides in a rush, skin tingling. Sherlock dropped to his knees, breathing raggedly, desperate. Jim’s fingers thread through his hair, now slick with sweat. “Please,” Sherlock whispered again, luxuriating in the touch. “Fuck me Jim.”

Jim’s lips soundlessly moved against his own once more. Sherlock struggled to read them, but he was exhausted and disoriented. He didn’t even know if he could stand at this point. Jim tried a few more times, but Sherlock just heaved in frustration. Then Jim kissed him and it was like fireworks went off in the darkness. 

Jim coaxed Sherlock onto his lap and the detective was eager to comply, sinking himself down onto Jim’s cock with wanton desperation, head tilt back, throat exposed, moaning in relief at finally being filled. One ear plug was plucked from his ear and Jim’s hot breath against the shell sent gooseflesh over Sherlock’s body. “You make a gorgeous fuck-toy Sherlock,” Jim said in a voice so soft and sweet it sounded like pure sin. His teeth raked along Sherlock’s throat and his tongue dipped into the hollow at the base. “Did you know that?”

Sherlock shuddered. “Only for you,” he whispered, trembling with urge to grind down on Jim’s prick, but resisting.

Jim’s mouth curled into a smile as it lazily explored Sherlock’s chest. He stroked Sherlock’s cock, periodically thrusting up inside of him. Sherlock rolled his hips in response, but did not push for more. He took every thrust he was given with gratitude, pressing his forehead to Jim’s shoulder and moaning. 

By the time Jim coaxed him onto his back and began rutting into him properly, Sherlock was delirious in a way he’d never experienced outside of a drug high. It didn’t take long for Jim to bring them both to climax. Sherlock collapsed, consciousness waning. Jim pulled off his blindfold, removed the collar and the arm restraints. Bright white light flooded the room and Sherlock blinked hard against it to focus on the way it lit up Jim’s skin, the way it caught in his eyes, illuminating the darkness he usually found there into a honey hazel glow. He’s breath stuttered at the rare sight and in response those eyes turned to focus solely on him. 

“How are you feeling,” Jim asked, rubbing one of Sherlock’s wrists between his hands to sooth the life back into them. 

“Perfect,” he whispered with a dreamy smile.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little bit of plot to link together the smut. For those of you interested in Moran, he's in the next chapter and that will go on for the next three-ish chapters, similar to Irene. For those of you who aren't into Moran, feel free to skim/skip those.

It’s an odd sort of pleasure to be somewhere innocuous and feel the slight twinge of an ache, eliciting a smile at the memory of the injury which caused it. Sherlock slumped in his chair and rolled his shoulder, accentuating the pull of the week-old lash wound fading on his back. It was nearly healed now. Jim had been uncharacteristically caring when he’d dressed it, assuring him there would be no permanent mark, which was a bit of a disappointment, but Sherlock was determined to enjoy the look and feel of his souvenir of a day well-lived for as long as possible. The night Jim was sweetly pliant in his arms. The morning Jim had chosen to play with him for his own pleasure. 

“You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said,” Mycroft snapped.

Sherlock opened one eye lazily and stretched his body out, slumping a bit sullenly in his seat. “You’re still here,” he grumbled.

“Of course I am. Sherlock this is important.” Mycroft’s jaw was clenched and he clutched the handle of his umbrella like he were trying to wring the neck of something. Sherlock’s lips quirked into a small smile at the sight.

“Not to me,” he yawned. 

“Sherlock,” John added, looking up from the dossier he’d been reading. “This is Moriarty. It’s really him.”

“He thinks everything is Moriarty John,” Sherlock said with a dismissive wave toward his brother. 

Mycroft twisted his lips in disdain, then shared a worried glance with John. “I told you,” he said.

John straightened his spine. “Sod this. Sherlock.” With a thump, John planted the dossier into Sherlock’s lap. Paper clipped to the top was a surveillance photo of Jim in Paris. Sherlock peered closer. Of course the bastard went to the louvre without him. John’s finger stabbed directly on top of Jim’s image. “That, is James Moriarty. He’s a little hard to forget.”

Tell me about it, Sherlock thought. Aloud he only huffed, snapping the folder shut and tossing it back to his brother. “Someone who looks like him.”

“A painting went missing three days after this photo was taken,” Mycroft said. 

“Boring,” Sherlock said. “You’re grasping.”

“Hardly,” Mycroft huffed. “It disappeared in broad daylight, when the museum was open and in full attendance. No disruption in the security system. No witness. The painting was there one moment and gone the next, right under the nose of hundreds of people and one of the best security systems in the world. It’s clever and unnecessarily flashy. Sound like anyone you know?”

Sherlock’s breath caught at the description. Bloody hell, that was sexy. It was an inside job. Had to be. Jim loved the simplicity of those. The rest was a magic trick surely. His gorgeous man with his gorgeous mind. He couldn’t wait to see him again and -

John cleared his throat, snapping Sherlock from his daydream. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinked up at John and felt a slight blush creep up his neck. He jumped up and waved a hand in irritation. “Could be anyone.”

Mycroft sighed loud and long suffering. John, undeterred followed close at his heels into the kitchen. “Sherlock. We need to talk about this.”

“Talk about what,” Sherlock asked nonchalantly as he rummaged through scattered tea cups looking for the one which looked cleanest. 

John paused, then shook his head. “Okay. Even if we write off the Moriarty bit. You’ll at least want to investigate the case. It’s a nine at the very least.”

A ten surely, Sherlock thought, but said nothing, picking up a decent looking cup and blowing into it. 

“Sherlock!” John looked positively flustered in his irritation. 

“I’m not in the mood to travel,” he said with a shrug and set the pot to boil.

“You’re … what?” John stared at him in disbelief.

“He doesn’t need to investigate it to sate his curiosity, Doctor,” Mycroft said drolly from the other room.

John looked at Mycroft, then to Sherlock, then back to Mycroft before sighing. “Someone going to fill me in here?”

Mycroft’s umbrella tapped with annoying punctuation on the kitchen floor as he entered. “He’s going to just ask Moriarty when he sees him on their next … moonlight rendezvous.”

“His what?” John blurted.

“My what?” Sherlock sneered.

The two of them shared an amused smile while Mycroft rolled his eyes. 

“He’s involved with Moriarty, Doctor Watson. Romantically. I assure you.”

John set his jaw then looked at Sherlock. “How does that work?”

If I only knew, Sherlock mused, but just huffed and looked away.

“Were you in on it,” John pressed.

“In on what,” Sherlock grumbled.

“That! Sherlock.” John jabbed a finger to the folder in Mycroft’s hand. “Did you help him steal that painting.”

“Of course not!” Sherlock tossed his arms up in irritation and turned his back to both of them.

“See. Answers come easy when he’s innocent.” Mycroft’s smug self-satisfaction oozed in the air.

Sherlock grit his teeth and poured his hot water messily into the tea cup and slamming the pot back down on the stove. “Get out,” he growled.

Mycroft straightened. “I have an idea of where he is. I’ll catch him on my own if I must. When I do, we’ll revisit the matter of how often you can see your little bird.”

“GET OUT!” Sherlock spun around staring daggers at Mycroft.

John shifted uneasily. “Mycroft. I think it would be best.”

Mycroft glanced over his brother then nodded curtly to John. “I’ll be in touch,” he said

When the door finally closed on the first landing, Sherlock glared at John. “If you’re going to start lecturing me – “

John held up his hands in surrender. “I’m not. I promise I’m not. I just want to talk. … Understand.”

The tension in Sherlock’s shoulders evaporated. John was looking at him with all the good-natured caring of a friend. “He’s my lover.”

John still managed to look surprised, but to his credit he resisted responding right away. He just nodded, processing the information. “Okay. Okay. So, he’s alive.”

“Of course he’s alive. You didn’t think I meant I’d stashed his corpse somewhere, did you?”

John laughed. Sherlock smiled. He loved it when he made John laugh. 

“Okay,” John said. “Glad we’ve got that bit cleared up.”

“Quite,” Sherlock said with a smirk.

John nodded and they stood in silence for a labored moment.

“So, when you made the comment about an orgy,” John began.

“I never said orgy.”

“Um. Yes. Yes, you did.”

Sherlock grimaced. Amazing what’s less embarrassing when you’re sure the other person isn’t paying attention.

John looked at him expectantly, then continued, running a hand over his face. “Jesus. I don’t know how to have this conversation with you.”

“Neither do I,” Sherlock admitted. He took a sip of his tea. 

“So, Irene?”

“Yes?”

“Yes? Irene too?” John had a strange grin on his face. 

Sherlock blushed and looked away, keeping his cup to his lips for longer than necessary just to have something to keep his mouth busy.

“Seriously?” John laughed. “No seriously. Let me get this straight. You go from zero experience.”

“I wouldn’t say zero,” Sherlock muttered.

“No practical experience,” John continued. “To what? Landing in bed with the most dangerous criminals in London.”

“Oh give them more credit than that,” Sherlock scoffed. “I think the Woman’s made a name for herself across the pond as well. And Jim’s in a league -”

“Jim? You call him Jim?”

“Calling him Mr. Moriarty in the throes of passion would be a little laborious.”

“Funny. I thought he’d go in for that sort of thing.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “Perhaps you’re right.” 

“What about Moran?”

Sherlock frowned. “What about him?”

John gestured impatiently. “You mentioned him in your little joke. Are you sleeping with him too?”

Sherlock crinkled his nose and sighed. “Not yet.”

“Yet? Set that up as a special night then you and Jim?”

Sherlock grimaced. “Something like that. I don’t want to talk about him.”

“You don’t seem keen.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why do it?”

“So Jim would agree to Irene.”

John gaped, stunned. “My god. You’re not kidding are you. You’ve actually done all of this.”

“You married an assassin,” Sherlock griped.

“One,” John said, holding up a finger as if counting them off proved his point. “I married one assassin.”

“That makes it better does it,” Sherlock sniped.

“Yes. Yes, it does!” John exclaimed.

“How?”

John opened his mouth to reply, but looked confused a moment. Then he straightened and relaxed, a slight smile on his face that looked almost like pride. “Well because Mary would kill the others if I had more than that.”

“You like that idea,” Sherlock teased.

“Not as much as you do apparently. You’re sitting on a powder keg, you know that, don’t you? These aren’t normal people you’re messing around with. If one of them gets jealous, you’re going to get more than mean phone calls and slashed tires.”

“I don’t think jealousy will be a problem.”

“People in your situation never think so.”

“What is my situation,” Sherlock asked.

“Taking multiple lovers.”

“I’m not taking multiple lovers,” Sherlock said. “Only Jim. With agreed upon, mutually shared, supplementation.”

John laughed. “Look I’m not judging.”

“Yes you are.”

“I’m trying not to. I’m your friend Sherlock. Okay? I’m only saying this out of concern.”

Sherlock nodded. Yes. John was his friend. He got a little emotional at times, but he had shown repeatedly that he did care. One of the few people in his life that did. That was worth something. “Okay. I appreciate that.”

John sighed, struggling with how to frame his next words. “It’s risky. It’s dangerous. And for what? How long do think this can possibly last?”

Sherlock’s stomach suddenly felt as if it were filled with lead. It must have been evident on his face because John suddenly looked concerned. Finally, Sherlock muttered. “In his company? Another 2932 hours. Then he’ll leave me.”

John nodded, not understanding at all. “Calculated it all out, did you?”

“Something like that.”

“Then why do it?”

Sherlock swallowed hard. His gaze drifted to the light streaming from the window on the far wall. Finally, he said in little above a whisper, “Because I’d have rather have had him for a little while, then to spend my life wondering.”

John said nothing. He just blinked at him, the words clicking into place. But Sherlock could see under all of that, John got that last part, he could empathize with the motive, if not the act. Eventually, he said in a softer tone. “Okay. Do you love him?”

“What?”

“Do you love James Moriarty, Sherlock? It’s a logical question to ask.”

“Nothing logical about it,” Sherlock grumbled. “Sadly.”

“Welcome to the human race. Do you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock sighed.

“Does he love you,” John continued to press.

Sherlock flinched. “Not yet.”

“Yet? He either does or he doesn’t. It’s an important, in this case, vital to your longevity, distinction.”

Sherlock leveled his gaze on John evenly. “I still have time to make him love me.”

John’s eyes widened, every muscle in his compact form frozen as if time had stopped. After an eternity, he blinked, then ran his hand over his face. “Jesus. We’re screwed.”

“Yes,” Sherlock mused. “Mycroft is intent on putting Jim in some dark ops prison. If he gets anywhere near Jim, he’ll think I betrayed him.”

“That’s not what I – “John began, then shook his head. “Okay. Whatever. The important thing is to determine what to do now.”

“Well obviously I have to warn Jim.”

“What?” John shook his head. “Wait. Sherlock.”

“He hasn’t been answering his phone lately.”

“Sherlock.”

“You’re right. Mycroft will likely have me followed more closely. So I’ll have to be careful if I look for him in person.”

“SHERLOCK!” John was nearly hyperventilating in frustration.

“What is it John?” Sherlock blinked. 

“You’re not going to do anything criminal, are you?” John nodded to one side. “For him I mean.”

“Of course not! Why would you think that!” Sherlock stared at John in genuine disbelief that John would even consider that he’d -

John gave a little laugh. “Because you did, for Mary. For me. Remember?”

“Oh.” Right. The memory slammed into place. That was illegal, wasn’t it. But shooting Magnussen in the face had felt very right at the time. Always get that mixed up, what’s right and what’s legal.

“Yeah. You did /that/ for me, knowing I generally frown on murder.”

“Oh don’t give me that,” Sherlock scoffed. “You did shoot the cabbie.”

“My point,” John interjected, then added more softly, “My point, Sherlock. Is that you go to extreme measures for people you care about, without taking consequences into consideration.”

“I’m touched John I –“

“Let me finish please,” John growled. Sherlock shut his mouth and John exhaled a calming breath. “If you’re willing to go to such lengths for people you care about who would not encourage you to take those actions. What do you think is going to happen when you’re in a similar situation with someone who will only encourage – “

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Encourage what?”

“Not the better angels of your nature, let’s say,” John concluded. He sliced the air with a hand, as though spreading cards on a table. “There, that’s all I’ll say. I just want you to think about it. Okay? Really think about it.”

Sherlock was silent for several minutes. He looked into the distance lost in thought and John relaxed as they slid into a companionable silence. 

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Don’t tell Mycroft.”

“For god’s sake.” John groaned, long suffering. “Fine. No, I won’t tell your brother who you’re shagging, even though he already knows. Or that you’re going to go warn your boyfriend that big brother is looking to beat him up, even though I’m sure EVERYONE already knows.”

Sherlock nodded. “Thank you.”

“But I’m telling Mary.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said with a shrug.

“Fine.”

The two of them stared at each other, then burst into laughter. John shook his head and said, “Seriously though, both Jim and Irene? Were there whips and chains and c4 vests involved?”

Sherlock grinned at his friend. “That would be telling.”


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beginning of the Sebastian/Sherlock/Jim portion of the story.
> 
> Trigger warnings - violence, mental illness, threats of rape (mormor is a dark pairing in my head)

It wasn't impossible to avoid Mycroft's surveillance, but it was an obnoxious thing to be forced into. After two weeks, Jim still wasn't responding to texts and phone calls rang without pick up to even a voice mail. Desperate, Sherlock had carefully made his way to Jim's house. He picked the lock and let himself in when no one answered the door. Everything was in place, but it had obviously not been used since Sherlock had last visited him here. Irene was out of the country again and had only teased him gently when he asked her if she knew where he was. Of course, she didn't, but there was one person who likely did. Sherlock grit is teeth at the thought.

He didn't have Moran's number, but he knew the sniper was always left in London to baby-sit Sherlock whenever Jim went out of town. There was one way Sherlock knew would certainly draw him out. So he made his way to one of the seedier drug dens he'd once frequented and waited by the door. He didn't wait long.

Fifteen minutes after he entered, a tall muscular blonde opened the door and Sherlock pulled back the hammer of his pistol with an audible click. "Against the wall, now," he growled.

Sebastian glanced at Sherlock, then at the gun pointed straight for his head, then back at Sherlock and grinned like it was Christmas. "Oh, that's adorable," the sniper cooed. 

Sherlock didn't waver, glaring at the man. "I'm not bluffing," he said coolly.

Sebastian cocked his head, that infuriating grin still plastered across his face. "Oh, I know you're not. That's what makes it fun." 

Sebastian moved fast, ducking low and a shot rang out from Sherlock's gun, spraying plaster from the far wall. The sniper tackled Sherlock at his middle, slamming his back against the wall. Sherlock swung, cold cocking Sebastian over the head with the butt of his gun with enough force to knock most men out. Which is why it was shocking when Sebastian twisted Sherlock's arm around and took the gun from him. Before he knew what was happening the cold metal end of his own pistol was pressed against his temple and Sebastian Moran had him pinned to the wall in a choke hold, grinning into his face. 

Sherlock struggled briefly, snarling, "That's enough." 

Sebastian just laughed. "It's enough when you've lost, is that how it works?"

"I just want to talk to you."

"I'm touched," Sebastian cooed. "Now turn around and put your hands on the wall."

"Why," Sherlock snarled, glaring straight into the man's eyes.

"I'm going to search you," Sebastian replied, meeting the glare with the unwavering no-nonsense of a parent scolding a child.

"I only brought the one gun."

"I'm not searching you for guns."

Sherlock huffed, but complied, enduring it as Sebastian searched him for hidden drugs. "I'm clean," he grumbled. "Like I said, I just want to talk."

Sebastian took Sherlock by the arm and roughly turned him around. He popped open the cartridge of Sherlock's pistol and discarded the bullets, then tucked the gun into a holster under his jacket. Sherlock caught sight of at least three others secured under that jacket. "Funny way to go about having a chat," Sebastian said, crossing his arms across his broad chest.

"I don't have your number," Sherlock grumbled.

"You could have asked."

Sherlock ran his hands over his face in exacerbation. "Where is he," Sherlock said at last.

"Where is who?"

"You know who. He's not answering my phone calls. Tell me where he is!" Sherlock felt his blood pressure rising every minute he had to deal with this man.

"Afraid Susie's mad at you? Do you want me to pass a note in the hallway after study hall," Sebastian teased with a sly grin.

"Don't let your jealousy get the better of you Moran," Sherlock snapped. "This is important. Just because I've replaced you –"

Sebastian barked out a laugh. "Oh! You haven't replaced me sweetheart."

"You're in denial," Sherlock said, straightening. "It's perfectly natural. The fact is that you never made him happy. He was lonely before me."

Sherlock's back was slammed into the wall as Sebastian grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and crushed his body weight against him. "Don't be a stuck up prick," Sebastian growled against Sherlock's ear. "Let's get one thing straight. I'm not jealous. You know why? Because you're half right. I made him happy, as happy as anyone can make that little madman. In that, you're wrong. But yeah, he's always been lonely. He's a different species of human, something we'll all be someday I figure, but he was born too soon. Right now, he's a rare, wild thing and he's been miserably alone because no one can keep up with that brain of his." Sebastian gave Sherlock a shove and released him. "Until you."

Sherlock coughed and sagged against the wall. Sebastian squatted down to stay at eye level. "Somewhere along the line, someone tried to domesticate you and half-succeeded, but you're just like him and you know it. That's why you can't stay away from him or forget him, you can smell it on each other. And that's why I'm not jealous of you Holmes, I never will be. Get that through your head."

Sherlock looked up at Sebastian through narrowed eyes. "Awful violent for a man whose not jealous," he sniped.

"That's not jealousy," Sebastian said. "That's teaching you that I will not take the brunt of your tantrums. I may not be you and Jim's kind of predator, but don't mistake that for meaning I'm prey."

Sherlock huffed, unconvinced. He didn't get to sulk long because a big meaty hand roughly ruffled his hair as if he were child or shaggy dog. "You sulk like him too," Sebastian said with a laugh. 

"Why do you like him," Sherlock said, sputtering as he shoved Sebastian's hand away from him.

Footsteps tentatively sounded on the stairs, the noise they'd been making had been apparently enough to wake the drug-induced dead. Without breaking his gaze from Sherlock, Sebastian pulled out a pistol and aimed it at the intruder. "Private fucking conversation," he growled, and the would-be interloper ran off with a squeak. 

Sebastian lowered the gun slowly and gave Sherlock a wink. "We should take this someplace a touch more intimate."

Sherlock recoiled at the innuendo and snatched Sebastian by the jacket, head butting him, and sending the sniper sprawling back on his tail. "Take me to him now," Sherlock said with a snort as he got to his feet and towered over the man.

Sebastian sat up, rubbing his forehead and laughing. "Still baring your fangs at me. Good," he said, looking Sherlock up and down appraisingly. "I like the half of you that's still wild." 

The look made the detective bristle. He inhaled sharply, shutting his eyes and gathering himself. "I swear to god I'm going to slip you a slow poison if you do not shut up and take me to him."

Sebastian got to his feet, brushing his trousers off as if it were all nothing. He grabbed Sherlock and the detective tensed for retaliatory impact, which is why the man's mouth crushing against his own nearly gave him a heart attack. Once his brain started working again he shoved the man away, wiping his mouth. "Idiot. I'm his property," he grumbled. 

"No, you're not," Sebastian said with an infuriatingly cocky smile. "I'm his property." He lifted his shirt, baring a scarred muscular stomach. Among the crisscrossed scars, just by his right hipbone was the carved initials JM. It was over a year old, done by thin knife, by hand, and deep. 

Sherlock stared at the initials dumbfounded. His heart hammered desperately in his chest as jealous rage washed through him. There was no mistaking what it meant. Before he could feel too much rejection, Sebastian grabbed Sherlock by the chin and pulled him close. "You, Sherlock Holmes are his mate. That's what you're going to be, I'll make sure of it." 

"Why do you care," Sherlock snarled, still processing and struggling with his hatred of everything that flourished signature stood for.

"Because he'll die if he's alone much longer. Which is why I'll chain you to his bed if I have to." He tapped Sherlock's cheek with an index finger, meeting the detective's furious glare without concern. "Behave and I won't have to do that. It would break my heart to cage a rare thing like you. It would be like caging him."

Caging him. Sherlock's eyes widened and he remembered why he'd come. "That's going to happen if you don't take me to him."

Sebastian's eyes narrowed. "What's going to happen? Someone's after you? Just tell me who."

"Him! Cage him! Keep up." Sherlock took a breath. "My brother knows he's alive. I have to see him."

Sebastian blinked at Sherlock then a slow glower settled over his features. "Did you sell him out?"

"No, you moron," Sherlock snarled. "You're wasting time."

Sebastian nodded, looking into an unseen distance thoughtfully. "Fine," he said after a long pause.

Sherlock opened his mouth to make a jab, but Sebastian pulled him into a choke hold before he had time to process what was happening. With expert precision, the sniper's hands pinched his neck, cutting off blood flow to his brain, giving Sherlock just enough time to grudgingly admire the skill before his world went black.

He was nauseated when he began to come around. The world swayed lightly and a deafening roar of helicopter blades in the wind made his ears pop. Sherlock cracked open a single eye to see Sebastian's profile. Sherlock tried to sit up, but was jerked back with a metal click. He jerked his hand and the catch of a handcuff reverberated against his wrist. "Why am I handcuffed," he sighed.

Sebastian grinned. "Good morning beautiful," he said. 

"Morning?" Sherlock blinked blearily out the window. A Mediterranean coastline sprawled out beneath them. "How long did you have me out?"

"About 24 hours. I gave you something to keep you under. Made it easier."

"To kidnap me?"

"To chauffer you, your highness," Sebastian said. "Timed it about right. We're almost there."

"Where," Sherlock said, craning his neck. "Greece?"

Sebastian grinned and the helicopter turned sharply, throwing Sherlock against the side of the vehicle. "Hold on," he the sniper said.

Sherlock glared back at him from the undignified heap he'd been tossed into.

They landed on an expansive lawn in front of a large chateau built on a bluff overlooking the lush blue waters. Sebastian cut the engines, then hopped out, making his way to the passenger door and releasing Sherlock from his binds. Then he strolled toward the chateau, not bothering to look back to see if the detective followed. 

Sherlock rubbed his wrists and sulked as he trailed behind. His eyes swept over the place. It was ludicrously expensive, the architecture was from the 1920s, but the building had been renovated within the past ten years. Likely that was how long Jim had owned the place. It was audacious, especially for a criminal trying to stay under the radar, but likely it was in the name of Jim's more innocuous identities. 

The inside was even more grand than the grounds, with marble floors and Turkish tiles covering the walls. He followed Sebastian through the house until he came to a long terrace overlooking the sea. Jim sat on a lounge under the shade of a tiled canopy, dressed in jeans and thin white shirt which was partially open, exposing his chest. By his feet was a weighty tome on astrophysics, face down and open about half way through. He and Sebastian were already chatting when Sherlock approached. Jim pulled down his sunglasses and eyed him. 

Sherlock forced a smile when their eyes met. "Doing some light reading," he said casually. 

"The author is a moron," Jim drawled. "But you're not here to discuss my reading habits."

Sherlock frowned. "No."

"Out with it," Jim said. "Daddy's on holiday."

Sherlock swallowed. "Mycroft knows you're alive."

Jim smirked. "Of course he does."

"Someone caught sight of you in France."

"Yes," Jim said, as if Sherlock were being the most boring person in the world. "Is that all?"

"You knew?" Sherlock should have realized that was a possibility, but here he was. Even Sebastian looked genuinely surprised by that.

"Of course." Jim pushed his sunglasses back on and reclined back in his chair. "But that's not all, is it Sherlock?"

Sherlock's heart hammered in his chest. Something was off, wrong. "He wants to imprison you."

"He wants you to imprison me," Jim corrected, his voice soft and detached, but vibrating on the verge of manic. "I've seen the cage he wants to put me in. What did he promise you, if you helped him?"

Shit. This was stupid. Very, very stupid. Sebastian was glaring at him now, tense. Sherlock took a breath and said, "You. Any time I want."

Sebastian had a gun pressed to his forehead faster than Sherlock could blink. Sherlock glanced at the barrel of the gun then met the sniper's angry glare. "Defeats your purposes, if you put a bullet in my brain," he said dully.

Sebastian pressed the barrel harder against Sherlock's skull. "I'll find another one like you."

Sherlock laughed. "Good luck with that."

"You said you didn't sell him out."

"I didn't," Sherlock hissed.

"Tiger," Jim's voice interceded. "Bring him here."

Sebastian's face was carved in stone as he roughly grabbed Sherlock by the arm and practically threw him into Jim's lap. Sherlock barely caught himself as he was sprawled ungainly over Jim's legs. He sat up to snarl at the man, but Jim grabbed him by the shirt collar and yanked him forward. He removed his sunglasses and searched Sherlock's eyes with cool analysis. "Say it to me, Sherlock. Did you tell your brother about me?"

Sherlock met Jim's dark bottomless eyes unwavering. "No. But he does know. He guessed after our first night. I told him he was wrong, but he doesn't believe me. He's looking for you."

Jim's face was perfectly expressionless. He loved and hated it how unreadable the man could be when he wanted to be. "Have you made a deal with your brother to lock me away?"

Sherlock swallowed hard. Lying would be pointless. "It was tempting, but no."

Jim smirked. "What was tempting about it?"

Sherlock's lips quirked in a small smile. "I like the idea of being the only one who can see you."

Sebastian's knuckles were white as he held the gun to Sherlock's head.

Jim's grasp loosened and he lay back, staring at the ceiling. "Put your gun away Tiger."

"Boss," Sebastian said cautiously.

"He isn't lying. It's fine."

Sebastian huffed, but he holstered his gun. "What now?"

"Did you follow protocols to make sure you weren't followed," Jim said.

"Yes," Sebastian replied, still sparing Sherlock an irritated scowl.

"Did you search Sherlock for tracking devices?"

"Do I look like an amateur?"

"Just answer Moran," Jim growled.

Sebastian sighed. "Of course I did. Full sweep. Even flushed his system in case something was swallowed."

"You did what," Sherlock shouted.

"I gave you an enema princess," Sebastian said with a smug grin. 

Sherlock was vibrating with mortified rage, but Jim's hand stroked his cheek, distracting him. "He was following orders Sherlock. Sebby didn't do anything untoward."

"How do you know," Sherlock growled, glaring at the man.

Jim grinned. It was infuriating. His hands slid down to squeeze Sherlock's arse. "Should I check for you?" 

God help him, Sherlocks breath caught at that and he practically trembled with want. "You're trying to distract me," he whispered, leaning toward the criminal, desperate to kiss him.

"And it's working." Jim smirked, his hands deftly tugging Sherlock's belt free and opening his trousers. Sherlock's pants tented out through the opening. Jim pulled them down and Sherlock's erection sprang free as Jim slid the fabric slowly back, baring his arse to the warm air. 

Sherlock's face burned as he looked over at Sebastian who was watching with obvious appreciation. "We're not alone," he whispered.

"No, we're not," Jim said, teasing one finger around Sherlock's hole as his left hand stroked Sherlock's cock. "You're always so hard and ready for me Sherlock. That's incredibly sexy."

"Jim, we should talk. You're in danger." Sherlock's breath stuttered and he glanced down to watch Jim's hand caress his cock. It became increasingly difficult to think.

"Not now honey. I'm keen to have you." Jim's finger slipped deep inside him. Sherlock gasped as the criminal immediately began massaging his prostate. 

"Jim," he gasped, his eyes slipping shut as he felt Jim pop open his shirt and his lips begin to brush his chest. He cracked open an eye, seeing that Sebastian had taken a seat. He didn't look like he was going to leave. "Ah! Se-Sebastian. Make him go away."

"No," Jim said, adding a second finger, and making Sherlock squirm. "I think I'll have him rim you."

"What? No!" Sherlock's awareness snapped fully into focus. He jerked away, only for Jim to viciously snatch a fistful of his hair and pull him close.

"You agreed," the criminal snarled. 

"I know. I know," Sherlock whispered. "Just not right now. Please. I missed you."

The fingers in his hair twisted painfully and a manic gleam glinted in Jim's eyes. "I've changed my mind. I think I'll watch as he fucks you."

"Ghost," Sherlock gasped. "Ghost ghost ghost. Stop please."

"Sebby come here," Jim snarled.

Sebastian sighed and stood up, approaching them with a resigned sort of look. Sherlock panicked. He read Jim wrong, he hadn't taken the news of Mycroft as well as it had seemed. "Please Jim," he whispered.

He cringed when Sebastian reached down for him, but instead of being descended upon, the large man plucked Sherlock effortlessly out of Jim's lap and threw him over his shoulder. Sherlock blinked in disorientation as he was carried away from Jim whose face was twisted into ugly rage.

"What do you THINK YOU'RE DOING MORON," the criminal screamed, now on his feet and following them. 

Sebastian didn't respond. He turned down a corridor and into a guest bedroom. He tossed Sherlock down on the bed like an unruly child. "Lock the door behind me," the sniper said to the flabbergasted detective, then shut the door just as Jim came into view of the doorframe, eyes wild and mad.

Sherlock jumped up and locked the door, slumping against it as he heard Jim scream at Sebastian like a lunatic.

"Out of the way Tiger," Jim cooed.

"No," Sebastian said simply. His voice sounded so tired.

"He's mine. You have no right," Jim's voice snarled low.

"He's yours. If you're to keep him, you'll thank me once you've got control of yourself again," Sebastian said lowly.

A viscous smack reverberated through the door. "I'm in control," Jim hissed.

"Too much control," Sebastian said, seemingly unphased by whatever physical strike Jim had inflicted on him. "You want an equal? Don't treat him like a toy."

"Don't act like you weren't interested," Jim's voice tinged up, cruelly playful.

"Doesn't matter. He wasn't. If you weren't out of your head, you'd care about that."

Another crack sounded and this time Sebastian groaned. "Who do you think you are to know when I'm in or out of my head Tiger," Jim said so softly Sherlock could barely make out the words. "What do you think you know about us?"

There was a long silence, then Jim snarled and a struggle began. A metal clunk hit the wall then scraped deep against the surface, a knife, a big one. Another big thump and then Jim snarled like a truly wild animal as his smaller body was slammed to the ground. He made a brief squawk of protest and then all was quiet. 

Sherlock sat by the door, his breath coming in ragged gulps, his mind able to recreate perfectly the actions of the scuffle from sound alone, but his emotions unable to sort why this was all happening.

Eventually he heard Sebastian stand, pick up Jim's body, and with a heavy sigh carry the criminal off. Sherlock waited for a few minutes, then hesitantly opened the door. He peered down the hallway, eerie now in its silence, and made his way back out to the terrace, buckling his belt and setting his clothes back to rights. 

A few minutes later Sebastian returned with a beer, not looking at Sherlock as he plopped onto one of the lounge chairs and taking a heavy swig from his bottle. Sherlock stood at the railing, looking out at the ocean, unsure what to say. Silence hung heavy between them for several minutes. 

Gathering himself, Sherlock took a breath then said, "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," Sebastian grumbled.

"Is he okay?"

"He's asleep." Sebastian hesitated, then added, "I medicated him. I don't like doing it, but when he gets that bad, he can ... hurt himself."

"What was that?"

Sebastian laughed bitterly. "Did you think he was faking being mad?"

"A little," Sherlock whispered. "He seemed fine every other time I've been with him."

Sebastian sighed. "He disappears to places like this when he's in one of his more unstable phases. You weren't supposed to see him like that. He didn't want you to see him like this, that's why he disappeared on you. I wouldn't have brought you, but ... it was an emergency."

Sherlock turned around and faced the man. A bright red gash bloomed fresh down his collarbone, his shirt was torn displaying the mesh of scars which took on new meaning. "Did he give you all of those," Sherlock said.

"Most of them," Sebastian said with shrug. "Why do you think he calls me Tiger?"

"That's awful," Sherlock said.

Sebastian laughed. "Do you really think so?"

Sherlock blinked and cocked his head to the side. "I don't know. Isn't that the right thing to say?"

Sebastian looked over Sherlock was undisguised appreciation, but this time he didn't find it uncomfortable to be admired. "Sometimes when you talk Holmes, I can't help but imagine that it's what Jim would be like if he'd been tamed a bit."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "Did you ever try?"

"Try what," Sebastian said, taking another hard pull from his beer.

"To tame him," Sherlock said. "I figured you'd have had the best chance."

"No."

"Why?"

"I lied," Sebastian said.

Sherlock stiffened. "About what?"

"Why he calls me Tiger."

"Oh?" Sherlock frowned in confusion. "I always assumed it was because you killed one. That's the rumor among the criminal class. You killed one with your bare hands."

Sebastian stiffened, affronted. "Arseholes," he grumbled. "I was with my squad, we were doing an exercise in the jungle. One of my men saw this tigress, a dozen or so meters away. I was in command, sniper training. This little punk raised his rifle at her, fancied himself some great white hunter. I ordered him to lower his weapon, but he was an entitled little twat."

In his mind, Sherlock could see it. The colonel, younger, with his short-cropped hair and trim army dress, skilled, esteemed, legitimate. "What did you do," he said, his mind unfolding the answer before the words escaped his lips.

"He shot her. I shot him," Sebastian said. "Then when my men turned on me, so I shot them all. Killed them all. I was court martialed."

"You murdered your men," Sherlock said.

"There are seven billion people on this planet. How many wild tigers do you think there are?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said. He might have known once, but he deleted it.

"3200," Sebastian said simply. He met Sherlock's gaze evenly. 

"Some people would say that human life is worth more," Sherlock said cautiously.

"People are idiots," Sebastian said, then added, "But you know that better than most."

"I didn't know you were an animal lover," Sherlock said. 

"There was a time when life on this planet was wild and free," Sebastian said, polishing off the last drops of his beer. "But we've caged the world now. Precious little is wild or free anymore." He stood and approached Sherlock. "Jim is. That's why I'll never try to tame him, never let anyone put him in a zoo."

Sherlock glanced down the hallway. Jim was in one of those rooms. "Some would say you're being romantic. That's he's mad, not wild."

"Ever seen the way wild animals pace their cage? Back and forth endlessly."

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Neurosis from being confined."

Sebastian shrugged. "It's the same way with him. The ennui gets to him. From time to time, he snaps."

Sherlock gazed harshly up at Sebastian. "So, you simply tranquilize your wild animal when he gets aggressive?"

Sebastian frowned. "Like I said, I don't like to." The sniper pushed past Sherlock and padded toward the kitchen. "But it's better than waking up one day to find he's really put a bullet in his head."

Sherlock followed the man into the kitchen. "Is that a real risk?"

Sebastian pulled out another beer and opened the cap against the counter. He laughed bitterly. "Very real," he said, taking a swig. "I was hoping having you as company would help with that."

Sherlock bit his lip. "I don't appear to be doing much good."

"Nah," Sebastian said, licking foam from his top lip. "He's been much better since you've been around. You don't see it because he shows you his best face, but trust me, it's been worlds of difference these past few months. That's why I stopped all that out there. I don't want him to scare you off."

Was it strange that hearing he'd helped Jim made Sherlock feel slightly elated? He smiled crookedly. "He can't scare me off." He looked at Sebastian with a smirk. "He's my kind."

Sebastian smiled and nodded. "Good."

"Can I see him?"

Sebastian glanced down the hallway. "He's asleep."

"That's okay. I want to wake up next to him."

Sebastian's brows furrowed. "I don't know how he'll be when he wakes up," he said.

Sherlock licked his lips and looked away. "How big is the bed?"

"Why?"

He took a deep breath and forced himself to look at the sniper. "If you're worried, you could sleep in there with us."

"Why detective, this is so sudden," Sebastian teased.

"Just to sleep," Sherlock growled. 

Sebastian held his hands up. "I sir, am a gentleman."

"If you're not, you'll see how little I've been tamed," Sherlock growled.

"Oh now you're being a cocktease," Sebastian said.

"Shut up," Sherlock said.

"You're the boss," Sebastian said with a grin.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mental health issues, voyeurism, deductions, Jim being a brat

Jim had never looked so fragile.  Sebastian had unceremoniously dumped the criminal into the center of a massive four poster bed.  He lay like a broken doll across a gold brocade duvet, still fully dressed.  His white shirt was stained with a streak of blood.  As Sherlock approached he realized it didn’t belong to Jim. 

Sebastian eyed Sherlock with reserve.  “I don’t think this is a good idea.  Give him a couple days to get back to normal.”

Sherlock sat on the foot of the bed, placing one of Jim’s feet in his lap and carefully removing his shoes.  “This is fine,” he said. 

Sebastian sat on one side of the bed, running his hands wearily over his face and sighing. “You don’t know what you’re going to get in the morning.”

“I’ll get Jim,” he replied simply, moving on to delicately remove the blood stained shirt from his former enemy.  “I want every side of him.”

“He might kill you,” Sebastian pressed.

Sherlock’s fingers paused on Jim’s trousers for just a moment, then he continued to undress the man.  “Maybe.  I don’t mind.”

“Of course you don’t,” Sebastian snorted, but he was smiling, amused.   “You won’t have to deal with the aftermath if he does.  I have to clean up the mess and keep him from offing himself when he realizes what he’s done.”

“Then you’ll have to make sure I stay alive.”  Sherlock pulled back the covers and picked Jim up to tuck him underneath.  He was light.  He was thin.  He’d lost weight quickly.  Sherlock frowned, looking over the man in his arms with a clinical critique.   “Does he stop eating when he … has these spells.”

“Like you’re one to talk,” Sebastian grumbled, pulling his shirt up over his head and tossing it messily to the floor, mumbling.  “Skinny crazy boffin boys.”

“Thought it was your type,” Sherlock said, kicking off his shoes and removing his belt before slipping into bed next to Jim.  

Sebastian settled on the other side of the sleeping criminal, grinning at Sherlock. “Oh it is.  I’d tell you how much, but your highness has deemed this a platonic nap.”

“Don’t forget it,” Sherlock grumbled, pulling Jim against him and settling down with a sigh.  He pressed his lips to the crown of Jim’s head, his dark hair smelled of product.  He needed a bath.  Sherlock stroked Jim’s back and wondered if the man would tolerate being bathed and cared for.   It was probably too much to hope for. 

He looked up and caught Sebastian watching him with a small smile.  The sniper held up his hands, “I’ll leave you to it.”  He turned his back to him then, settling down to sleep.  “Scream if you need me.”

Sherlock scowled at Sebastian’s back a moment, then turned his attention back to Jim.  The man’s breath came shallow and soft against Sherlock’s chest.   He indulged in running his fingertips over the criminal’s face, through his hair, tracing the contour of his ear.  He pressed their foreheads together and inhaled deep.  For everything remarkable about the two of them, they were, in the end, two imperfect and finite beings.  Life had taught Sherlock that nothing was certain, but also that failing to even attempt to get closer to this man was something he couldn’t abide again.  The gain of having James Moriarty for his own was invaluable. He could accept that the risk was equal to the reward.    He drifted off gradually, lost in indulgent thoughts of growing old with the man in his arms.

He woke with a weight on his chest and pressure around his neck.  Sherlock’s eyes shot open and his mouth gaped as he tried to pull air which would not come.  Straddling his chest like some medieval demon and face inches away from his own, Jim’s dark eyes where lifeless and bored as he pressed his hands down on Sherlock’s windpipe.  Sherlock glanced to the other side of the bed.  Sebastian’s back rose and fell with the steady rhythm of sleep.  He tried to call for help, but only a gurgle escaped.  Jim’s lips quirked into a slow manic smile.  “Shhhhh…. I’m rescuing you,” Jim whispered.  “We’ll both be free soon Sherlock.” 

Sherlock kicked out his leg, bucking his body to knock Jim off.  While unsuccessful in dislodging the smaller man, he jostled Sebastian out of sleep.  In a flash, Sebastian was on Jim, yanking him off Sherlock and pulling him back against his chest.  Sherlock gasped, choking for air. He sat bolt upright, looking at the curious blank way Jim hung in Sebastian’s arms, completely passive now.

“He’s fine now,” Sherlock said, sweeping his eyes over Jim’s form, mind whirling.

“He can turn in an instant,” Sebastian said.  As if on que, Jim’s eyes widened and his fast twisted into a snarl.  He thrashed like a maniac against the hold restraining him. 

“Get out,” Sebastian snapped.  “Now!”

Sherlock caught his breath and paused.  Something about what Jim had said, the way he’d said it, tickled the edge of his mind.  Instead of fleeing, he crawled toward Jim. 

“Are you unhinged too?  Leave,” Sebastian shouted.

“Just hold him still,” Sherlock said calmly.   It was the eyes.  Sherlock had caught the same look when he’d looked in the mirror during a drug bender.  Or when he’d wandered too far down into his own mind palace and could no longer tell what was real and what wasn’t.  Sometimes it was the same thing.  He cupped Jim’s snarling face in his hands. “James.”

Jim hissed at him.  He looked possessed.  Sherlock forced Jim’s face up so their eyes were meeting.  “James.  You’re in too deep.”

“What the fuck are you going on about,” Sebastian shouted, taking a blow to the head from his captive’s fist and growling in frustration.

“Shut up,” Sherlock snapped.  He pressed his lips to Jim’s ear, whispering hot and fast.  “You stole a painting.  Daylight robbery.  But you didn’t have an insider this time.  Played a riff on your IT persona and replaced the repairman working on the security system.  You stole it that night yourself.  You wanted a bit of fun.  So you replaced it with a duplicate.”

Jim went still, but his body was tense in Sebastian’s grip, his dark eyes stared into an unseen distance.  Sherlock glanced up at Sebastian, giving the confused man a small smile.  He ran his fingers gently over Jim’s face.  Was his voice being translated to a version of Sherlock deep in Jim’s mind?   “It was the duplicate which disappeared.”

Jim’s lips moved soundlessly and his eyes continued to stare doll-like into nothing.  He was right. They were having a conversation in Jim’s head.   What would Jim say in response?  He’d challenge Sherlock to finish the puzzle.  Sherlock kissed Jim’s forehead.  “You treated the forgery with a chemical.  It would cause the painting to crumble to dust.  They thought it was plaster from a drill piled at the floor, but no holes were detected.  It must have been a catalyst which would activate upon reaching a certain temperature.  You would have timed it just right.  Waiting for the display lights and body temperature of the crowd to heat the painting to the point when the catalyst activated.  You calculated the exact moment it would give.  You just needed a distraction.  You arranged an altercation between a security guard and a paid performer, a disruption loud enough to pull the attention of the room for just a moment.  Long enough for the chemicals on the forgery to reach critical mass, disintegrating in an instant.  When the crowd returned to normal, a single painting was gone.”  Sherlock sighed.  “Gorgeous.”

Jim’s breathing evened.  Sebastian looked at Sherlock in disbelief.  Sherlock ran his hands over Jim’s face with adoration.  “Did I get it right?”

Jim said nothing, his eyes unfocused, teetering on the edge of catatonic, but instinctively Sherlock knew he was close to reaching him.  He could feel it in the electricity between them.  He kissed Jim’s lips with soft adoration.  “Come on,” he cooed.  “You know how much I like to show off for you.  Did I miss anything?”

Jim’s eyes fluttered and he looked at Sherlock with recognition.  “Where did I hide the original,” he said barely above a whisper, his lips quirked in a cocky, if weak smile.

Sherlock sighed, then laughed with relief.  “I don’t know Jim.  Where?”

Jim’s face broke into a boyish smile.  “Mycroft’s home office.”

“Brat,” Sherlock hummed with amusement.

“You love it,” Jim purred and his body instantly relaxed in Sebastian’s hold, in command of himself again.  His brows furrowed as he realized he was being restrained.  He jerked his arms.  “Get off me Tiger.  I’ve got to take a piss.”

Sebastian looked stunned as he loosened his grip and watched Jim slide out of bed and saunter to the bath like nothing at all had just happened.

“What did you do,” the sniper said, staring after his boss.  “Was it a trick?”

“No trick,” Sherlock said, slumping against the headboard.  “I just realized where he was going when he doesn’t seem to be all here.”

“Where?”

“Deep inside his own head.  He’s running a thought experiment or a scenario or just dreaming.  Theta state thinking.  I don’t think it’s a mind palace.  Something else, something less structured,” Sherlock said, taking a deep breath and rubbing his throat.  “I don’t think he knows how to control it.  Makes sense, he’s incapable of thinking inside a box.  He starts thinking and gets lost sometimes.”

“Okaaaay,” Sebastian said, clearly skeptical. “So are you saying he’s not mad?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Sherlock scoffed.  “He’s completely mental.”

Sebastian laughed.  “Then what did you do to snap him out of it?”

“Engaged the logic part of his brain and used it to guide him back out with a story he already knew the ending to.”

“Looked like brainy flirting,” Sebastian grumbled. 

“That too,” Sherlock said with a smirk.

Jim emerged a few minutes later yawning.  “I’m hungry Tiger.  Make me breakfast.”

Sebastian stared at Jim, still in disbelief.  “Seriously?  You were punching me in the face a few minutes ago and now you want breakfast.”

Jim frowned, his eyes squinting as if he were concentrating on something.  Then he wrinkled his nose and looked at Sebastian like he’d said something incredibly stupid.  “Well, yeah.”  Sebastian gave him a look and Jim snarked, “Oh don’t act like it’s the first time.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes and groaned, but he slid out of the bed and wandered toward the door.  He turned back to the room.  “I’ll just be a few minutes.  Call me if you need something.”

“I will,” Jim said cheerily, plopping down beside Sherlock on the bed with a playful bounce.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Sebastian said, sparing Sherlock a worried glance before turning toward the kitchen.

Jim stretched out across the bed and let out a deep breath, closing his eyes.  Sherlock moved closer to him, tracing the long curve of one of Jim’s dark eyebrows with one finger.  “Are you alone in your head?”

“Yes,” Jim said softly without opening his eyes.

“Always?”

“Nearly always.”

“I’m not,” Sherlock admitted.

“You talk to imaginary friends and you call me mental,” Jim groused.

Sherlock’s finger trailed down Jim’s cheek, tracing his jawline, enjoying the fact that Jim was allowing him to do so.  “Do you remember what happened this morning?  Last night?”

Jim didn’t so much as flinch.  “I’m aware of every moment.”   He opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock, remorseless.  “Are you expecting an apology?”

Sherlock snorted.  “I wouldn’t presume to demand one from you.”

Jim’s eyes slipped shut again.  Sherlock glanced to the door.  From the kitchen he could hear something sizzling on a pan and smelled coffee brewing.  “But now that I know this … part of you is real.  I’ll –“

“You’ll what,” Jim hissed, glaring at him now.

Sherlock frowned, then leaned down to kiss Jim’s forehead.  “I will stop you, if you lose control like that again.”

“Think you can,” Jim purred, cruelty glinting around the edges his dark eyes.  But it wasn’t the same insanity.  Jim was intentionally trying to put him off.  “What will you do, if it doesn’t work the way you hope next time?”

Sherlock refused to be intimidated.  His hands trailed down Jim’s bare stomach to grip his slim hips, giving him a meaningful squeeze.  “Well, you know how fond I am of tying you up and spanking you.”

“Pervert.”  Jim stretched his body out in a tantalizing way.  It too, was intentional.  His dark eyes dilated and a barely audible breathy moan slid past his lips.  And just like that, despite everything that had happened the past twelve hours, Sherlock’s body shuddered with lust.  But to take advantage of Jim now, after he’d just had an episode, would be selfish.   Wouldn’t it?

Jim chuckled darkly, sliding a bare leg along Sherlock’s body.  “Ooooh? Am I fragile now?  Will you be a bad man if you touch me like you want to?”

Sherlock bit his lip.  Well he was cognizant enough to read him.  That was a good sign.  He ran his fingers through Jim’s hair, brushing the strands back against his head.  “How often do you have these spells?”

“Boring,” Jim sang, his tone tinged with mania.  He bit his lip ran his hand down his chest and stomach in a way Sherlock had only ever seen in a porn clip, moaning softly as he slipped his hands under his pants and made a show of stroking himself under the fabric.  “I’m horny Sherlock.  Don’t be boring.”

Sherlock couldn’t help himself, he leaned down and kissed his mad, beautiful, genius man, pressing against him and exploring his mouth with heat.   To his delight, Jim returned the kiss with rare openness, his body passive under Sherlock’s touch.  A small whimper escaped Jim’s throat as Sherlock ground against him and the sound vibrated through his blood. 

“Bloody hell Jim,” Sherlock muttered, picking him up and tossing him into the center of the bed.  He kissed up one of Jim’s thighs as he pulled his pants down from his hips, taking hold of the man’s freed cock with greed.  “Say you’re mine,” Sherlock growled, stroking Jim slowly and nipping his stomach.

“I’m yours,” Jim whispered with the softest meekness, his demeanor positively angelic.

“You’re being a manipulative twat, aren’t you,” Sherlock grumbled against Jim’s skin.  He kissed and licked along his inner thigh.

“Yes.  But you don’t care.” Jim laughed wickedly as he ran both hands through Sherlock’s hair.

“No, I don’t,” Sherlock sighed, licking up Jim’s length then taking him fully into his mouth.  Jim’s back arched and he moaned at a volume that took Sherlock by surprise.  He’d never heard Jim be so loud before.  He paused for only a moment, when Jim’s fingers tightened in his hair and pushed his head down on his cock.   

Sherlock didn’t resist, didn’t want to. He just relaxed his jaw and tried to keep up as Jim urgently canted his hips up, fucking his mouth. He hummed low in his throat against the onslaught, attempting to please Jim further.  Jim continued to be extraordinarily vocal, his moans filled Sherlock’s ears, the taste of him filled his mouth, all of it made the detective shudder under the weight of his lust. 

Jim’s thrusts became a bit erratic, he was close to coming.  That too was unusual for a man whose stamina had impressed more than one lover.  That meant that in this mental state, Jim was more sensitive.  Sherlock pulled his head away, ripping his head away from Jim’s grasp and sitting back on his heels.  Jim whined with disappointment, reaching out for him. 

“Why,” Jim pouted like a child, his body completely flushed a rosy hue. 

Sherlock grabbed Jim by the hips and abruptly tossed him on his stomach.  He ran his hand up the crevice of Jim’s arse and braced himself over him.  “I want to have you,” Sherlock said, soft and deep, latching his teeth onto the shell of Jim’s ear.  “I want to fuck you into oblivion.”

Jim lifted his hips up into the touch, swaying softly.  “Please,” the criminal purred, his voice dripping with lust. 

Sherlock ran his tongue down Jim’s spine, parting his cheeks and trailing his tongue down to his hole.  Jim whined with frustration, tilting his bum up eagerly.  Sherlock pushed his tongue inside and Jim cried out. 

Sherlock fucked him with his tongue, then teased him with his fingers, pressing in deep and intentionally only grazing the man’s prostate. 

“Please,” Jim repeated, gasping.    

“Where’s your lubricant,” Sherlock said, fixated on the site of Jim’s hole taking the thrust of his fingers as his hips learned back toward him, encouraging more.

“Wasn’t expecting you.  Didn’t buy any,” Jim gasped, his shoulder blades pronounced as he braced his body on all fours, offering himself up like an animal in heat.

“You must have something,” Sherlock said, considering whether saliva would be enough to make this as enjoyable as he wanted it to be.

“Ask Seb to bring olive oil,” Jim gasped. 

“He’s in the kitchen.”

Jim chuckled.  He glanced back over his shoulder.  “He’s listening in the hallway Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s body froze while his mind burst to life.  The unusual volume of Jim’s amorous vocals apparently had a strategic design.  Even half out of his mind, the criminal was a master of manipulating a situation. 

 It didn’t’ matter.  Jim had made it clear he wanted to experience both his pet sniper and Sherlock at the same time.  So Sherlock had two choices.  He could make an issue of it and shut down the mood of this rare side of Jim’s personality.  Or he could take control of the situation and go with it.   It took only two seconds to reach a decision.  His fingers resumed pulsing in and out of Jim’s body, making the man tremble. 

“Sebastian,” Sherlock shouted.  “If you’re going to enjoy the show, make yourself useful.”

Footsteps moved from the door to the kitchen and Jim glanced back at Sherlock with a sly smile.  Sherlock gave Jim’s arse a hard smack, making the man groan and his eyes slip shut.  “Don’t get cocky,” Sherlock chided, then pushed Jim’s head down against the mattress, nearly folding him in half so hi bum was lifted even higher, opening him up to an easier position for Sherlock’s mouth. 

Jim whimpered and moaned as Sherlock took advantage to take hold of Jim’s hips and push his tongue deep into Jim’s hole.  He nudged Jim’s legs apart and reached between his legs to stroke the criminal’s dripping wet cock.  His face was buried in Jim’s pert arse when Sebastian hesitantly entered the room, holding the ordered bottle of oil. 

Sherlock lifted his head and pushed his fingers back into Jim as he held a hand out for it.  Sebastian’s eyes were dilated, a soft flush stained his light features, an unmistakable bulge in his trousers evidence that, true to his claims, jealousy was the furthest thing from the sniper’s mind.

Sebastian swallowed hard, his eyes glued to the two of them, then handed the bottle to the detective.  He turned to go, but Sherlock said in as bored a tone as possible, “If you’re going to watch, I’d rather you did so without hiding.”

He opened the bottle and poured a generous amount into Jim’s hole. He tested with his fingers and was pleased to find that the material would serve his purpose well.  Sebastian looked like a deer in headlights.  Oh.  That too was unusual.  Interesting.  “I thought you’d want privacy,” Sebastian said at last.

Jim huffed in frustration.  “Sit down and shut up Basher,” he barked.  “I’m getting impa-aY-Ah!”

Sherlock abruptly shoved his fingers as deep as possible into Jim’s arse.  “Behave,” he scolded.

“Impressive for someone so green,” Sebastian said, but his chuckle was cut off as Sherlock’s icy eyes snapped up to meet him with cool calm, while his hands continued to manipulate the criminal’s whimpering body under him. 

“Thanks,” Sherlock said with a tight smile, then added flatly.  “But do sit down and shut up.”

Jim laughed wickedly and Sebastian snapped his mouth shut.  It was obvious Sebastian was not interested in putting Sherlock off and ruining the opportunity he was being given.  He took a seat in a wingback upholstered chair which faced the bed.  He adjusted himself four times, clearly uncomfortable in his current state.     

Sherlock gave the sniper one more glance, assured that the man was following his orders alone when it came to this encounter.  Sherlock sat back then, undressing himself.  Jim melted against the bed, sprawling himself out on his back.  His gaze fixed only on Sherlock, ignoring his pet seated a couple of meters behind him.  Seeing that stroked Sherlock’s ego nicely. 

Sherlock kicked his pants off and crawled back onto the bed.  Jim immediately crawled low toward him, his hands sliding up from the bed along Sherlock’s thighs to rise up to his cock and meekly lick and kiss Sherlock’s erection, moaning like it was the only thing he’d ever wanted.  Sherlock hummed with pleasure, petting Jim’s head and watching him worship his cock.  “I don’t know if you deserve it, after what you pulled yesterday,” the detective teased.

Jim looked up at him with big doe eyes, his lips flush against the red head of Sherlock’s erection.  “I’m sorry,” he said with a convincingly innocent, wanton expression.  If he didn’t know Jim better, Sherlock would swear it was real.

He tsked, squeezing Jim’s cheeks in his hand.  “Are you really?   No.  I think giving it to you would be just spoiling you.”

“Please,” Jim whimpered, kissing up the length with a look of utmost devotion.  “I don’t deserve it, but I need it.  I need you Sherlock.”  Fuck, it looked real.  Then those dark eyes looked up again and locked with his own, lewdly licking a stripe up the full length of Sherlock’s erection and adding in a whisper “only you.”

At that moment, reason flew from the mind of Sherlock Holmes.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay everyone. I truly struggled with this chapter. I wanted to provide a logical arc to shift in dynamic between Sebastian, Jim, and Sherlock without feeling like I jumped the shark anywhere and making the characters consistent with who they have been up to this point.

Jim’s back hit the wall with enough force to send a framed print crashing to the floor, shattering the glass.  No one in the room so much as glanced at it.  With a fistful of dark hair, buried balls deep in his one-time adversary, Sherlock kissed James Moriarty as though he were trying to suck the life force from his lips.  Never in his entire life had he lost control of his lusts like he was at this moment.  Whatever fever dream had hold of Jim’s mind, Sherlock felt as though he’d caught a piece of it.  He hammered Jim against the headboard.  The runaway fury of it would give him pause, if not for the fact that Jim pushed his body back into every thrust, speeding their mutual momentum until it was impossible to tell which of them was driving. 

Jim’s fingers clawed against his back, pulling him closer while leaving long shallow gashes from shoulder to tail bone.  Sherlock hissed into Jim’s mouth, his back arching under the assault.  He grabbed the smaller man and tossed him to the bed.  Jim laughed as he bounced back against the mattress, looking up at Sherlock through a fringe of his disheveled hair and grinning like he intended to eat him.  He opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock pounced on him before he had a chance.  Pinning Jim’s wrists above his head, Sherlock thrust back into him, picking up right where he left off with the desperate pace they’d set.  The way Jim moaned and wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s waist, made the detective want to crow.

Jim’s head fell back against the sheets, mouth open in a silent gasp, his flawless pale throat exposed to Sherlock’s greedy mouth.  Sucking a deep bruise into Jim’s skin, groaning with possessive heat, taking Jim willingly like this in front of the only possible rival for the man’s affections, Sherlock would swear he were floating on the best drug high of his life. 

It felt as if his entire body were electrified, his blood was sizzling with it.  And if any tickling doubt edged into his mind, over Jim’s behavior since he arrived, their audience of one, the disregard for the very real danger Mycroft presented, Sherlock shrugged it off without hesitation, because nothing, nothing was going to take this away from him.   This feeling of having the person of his desire and being desired by him in return, it was intoxicating.  If it were a lie, it was one he’d choose to believe again and again, because it made him feel alive.   Jim was the only other person who could ever truly understand him yet still want him in this way, not despite what he was, but because of it.  Even the potential illusion of having that was nothing short of euphoric. 

“I need you,” Sherlock whispered against Jim’s mouth.

Jim giggled, the only man alive that could make a giggle seem impishly wicked.  Jim’s thighs clenched around Sherlock’s waist, his body twisted, and in a single flip, he knocked Sherlock onto his back.  He leaned forward, brushing his lips overs Sherlock’s while continuing to ride his cock with pleasure vibrating through his form.  “You always need.  You’re made of it,” Jim said, his voice as soft and teasing as his body was hard and insistent as he rode him.      

Sherlock slid a hand up Jim’s stomach, admiring the way the faint light and shadow of the room accentuated the smooth plane of his form.  He wrapped his other hand around Jim’s cock and stroked him lazily in time with the undulation of his body.  “What about you?  What do you need,” he whispered.

Jim blinked rapidly, eyes fluttering as though he had trouble processing the question.  He turned his attention to Sherlock with small smile, his voice soft and dull.  “I need the noise to stop.  I need distraction.”  He tightened his internal muscles, pulling a gasp from Sherlock’s lips as Jim slowly slid his body up the length of him before slamming back down, all the while hissing a taunt, “Can you do that for me Sherlock?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock said without hesitation, sitting up and wrapping his arms around Jim’s waist as he pushed deep into him. 

Jim’s head lulled to the side, eyes slipping shut as his body rolled into it, pushing back, then opening his eyes to meet Sherlock’s again, dark and sharp.  “Oh!  You think you can do it with your magic prick, do you?  Are you going to fuck it away Sherlock?”

Sherlock gaped, unsure how to respond.  “I –“

“If that’s all it took, Sebby would have fixed it ages ago.”

Sherlock eyes flicked to Sebastian.  Still clearly aroused, but the sniper’s shoulders were now taut with something more than lust. He was alert, slightly alarmed.  That wasn’t a good sign.  He looked back up at Jim and knew to his core this was a trap.  A seductive trap.  Jim was his own private Salome.  He knew this, but continued forward anyway.  He kissed Jim softly, then whispered, “What do you want from me James?”

Jim’s grin widened across his face, that Cheshire cat grin with twin burning coal black eyes.

Sherlock forced himself to hold the gaze without waver.  “I’ll give you whatever you want.”  

“Anything,” Jim cooed, tracing a finger playfully along Sherlock’s jaw.

Sherlock swallowed.  “Anything in my power to give you,” he said steadily.

Jim giggled a little off kilter.  “Because you love me?”

A trap and a test, wrapped in one, it seemed.    “Yes,” Sherlock said, kissing Jim’s neck, determined to be undeterred.

Jim hissed through his teeth, looking away, but lifting his chin for Sherlock’s mouth to explore his skin.  “Dangerous business, that.”   His voice tilted up playfully. “Are you _su~re_?”

“If you’re going to ask for someone’s head, I believe you owe me a dance,” Sherlock deadpanned.

Jim slid his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and rolled his hips, his kiss positively sinful.  “I can give you much more than that sexy.  For the rest of your life, I promise, you’ll never be left wanting again.”

Sherlock’s breath stuttered and he squeezed his eyes shut.  Physical pleasure sliding against mental pain.  He knew what this was leading up to.  There was only one thing Jim would ask for.  “Just say it,” Sherlock hissed.

The manic gleam in Jim’s eyes as he lit up was terrifying, like watching an angel morph into a demon before his eyes.  “I want you to kill Myc- “

“Don’t,” Sebastian said, suddenly beside them, gripping Jim’s arm and shaking his head at the man.  “Don’t Jim.”

Jim glared at the hand on his arm, then raked his gaze up to his sniper.  “This isn’t your business.”

“It is,” Sebastian said, sparing a glance at Sherlock.  “If you want someone dead, that’s my job.”

Jim yanked his arm from Sebastian’s grip.  “It’s boring if you do it.”

“It’s cruel to ask him do it,” Sebastian retorted.

“I have no use for a pet that doesn’t know his place,” Jim hissed at the sniper, his fingers tightening in Sherlock’s hair and pulling him closer to his body with a possessiveness that Sherlock would enjoy in any other circumstance.  “You aren’t irreplaceable Basher.”

Sherlock stared at the hollow of Jim’s throat in a daze.  Jim wanted Mycroft dead.  Of course he did.  It made sense, from the criminal’s perspective.  Mycroft wanted Jim locked up.  That too was reasonable from his brother’s point of view.  They both wanted him to be their instrument.  When he looked up he caught the stricken look on Sebastian’s face and it struck him, Jim was playing them both off each other.

Sherlock grabbed Jim by the hips and pushed hard up into him.  “Stop it,” he said his voice deep, steel in his veins.  Jim gasped in surprise, then turned a knowing smirk at him, but Sherlock was having none of it.  “You’re going to behave James,” he growled.

“Am I?”  Jim tilt his head as if Sherlock were a curious thing.  “Why would I do that?  Because you found your grown-up voice?”  Jim resumed grinding himself down on Sherlock’s cock, making them both gasp.  “You’re still hard, sexy.  The idea of it doesn’t exactly turn you off, now does it?  Come on, you know you’re dying to see the look on your brother’s smug little face when you – UMPH.”  Sherlock picked Jim up and shoved him back against Sebastian’s chest.

“Hold him,” Sherlock growled and was gratified to find Sebastian complied, pinning Jim’s arm’s in a wrestler’s hold.  He wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but he needed to think.

Jim hung passively in the grip, pressed between the two of them, but looking at Sherlock with dispassion, humming, “2802.”

Sherlock grit his teeth.  “That’s not going to work.”

“Are you sure,” Jim hummed, his expression utterly bored.  “You said you wanted to know how to stop the countdown Sherl.  One bullet will it stop forever.”

Both Sebastian and Sherlock tensed at the double-edged meaning in that simple promise.  One bullet for Mycroft? Or for himself?  Sherlock began to jerk back, a reflex recoil, reliving that moment on the roof when he’d lost this man once before.   Sebastian snatched his arm and pulled back toward them while shaking his head.  “Don’t,” the sniper said.

Jim snickered.  “Let him run away.  Predictable.”  A little softer he sighed wistfully, “Everything is always predictable.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, but Sebastian released Jim and yanked Sherlock forward, crushing their mouths together with a fierceness that stole his breath.  Sherlock’s mind ground to a halt as he found himself pulled into Sebastian’s lap, his mouth ravaged, his body firmly in the hold of the much stronger man.  It took a few seconds for his mind to kick in and he tried to push away, but Sebastian’s grip only tightened. Sherlock was pressed down under him against the bed.  When he finally broke the kiss, he stroked Sherlock’s slick cock as he whispered into his ear so Jim could not overhear, “Keep him distracted, keep him entertained, or this can go very badly.”

“I’m not going to be manipulated,” Sherlock growled, glancing at Jim who was watching with a manic gleam in his eyes as he watched Sebastian paw him. 

“This isn’t about you,” Sebastian whispered harshly.   “I can’t tranquilize him out of this.  He’s fixating on a dangerous idea.  I have to give him something equally novel to fixate on to make him drop it.”

“What are you girls whispering about,” Jim teased, sliding closer to the two of them, but staying out of reach.

Sebastian looked at Jim with his most dashingly rogue’s smile.  “Sorry boss.  All the banter.  Just couldn’t help myself.”

Jim hummed, tilting his head as he regarded them.  Sherlock knew in once glance that Jim wasn’t buying that for a moment, despite Sebastian’s naïve belief otherwise.  The sniper may believe that he had kept Jim alive all these years, and to a degree that may be true, but it was clear that all Sebastian’s secret tricks to keep Jim “distracted” were in equal measure engineered by the criminal himself.  The man was truly Jim’s toy, albeit a favorite one, and the realization of it filled Sherlock with both relief for his own ego and pity for the devoted man.

“Trouble-maker,” Sherlock grumbled, lifting a hand to caress Sebastian’s back while watching for Jim’s reaction.  The sniper’s muscles tensed under his fingertips and Jim’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, before he pulled his face into an innocent little smile.  It was all the confirmation Sherlock needed.

Sebastian looked at Sherlock in alarm, but Jim’s laugh pulled his attention back.  “Clever you,” Jim crooned.

“This is what you wanted all along,” Sherlock sighed.  He felt a strange relief at that thought, Sebastian’s touch a comforting alternative to where this could have gone.  Then again, that was the point, wasn’t it?

“Is it?”  Jim’s face was the picture of innocence once again.  “Can you be sure?”

“Mundane,” Sherlock huffed. He was relieved that maneuvering Sebastian and him together had been the true objective.  That’s why he’d cut so cruel, so that this, in comparison, would feel like nothing.  Sherlock felt that relief, knew he felt it because Jim wanted him to feel it, and yet still couldn’t be sure it was the end game.  Which was the truth of Jim’s desire?  Placing him under Jim’s pet or truly setting him at his brother’s throat.  Perhaps a bit of both.  Knowing Jim, it was both or either.  Whatever he could get away with.

“It’s not.”  Jim stretched out across the bed, smirking.  “You know it’s not.  Admit it.”

“Fine.  I’m right where you intended me to be.”   Physically.  Mentally.  Emotionally.   “Well played.”

Jim hid his smile behind his arm like a mischievous child, bashfully pleased by the praise of a schoolyard sweetheart.  “You’re move,” he said softly.

Sebastian looked from one of them to the other, obviously oblivious to the game he was unwittingly part of.   “What’s going on,” he asked, his face so very much like John’s in that baffled, slightly irritated, wide-eyed ignorance. 

Sherlock sighed, draping an arm around Sebastian’s shoulder and pulling him down.  “We’re entertaining Jim. Keep up,” he said, then kissed Sebastian.   After months of always feeling on the defensive around the soldier, the stunned gasp this elicited from the man was a surprisingly satisfying change of pace. 

It was what Jim wanted. It was what he had promised Jim he would do.  And it was only fair wasn’t it?  Jim had willingly gone through with the arrangement with Irene first, had put himself completely at their mercy, let himself be seen as vulnerable.  All to indulge one of Sherlock’s fantasies, in any way that he wanted to live that out.  If he didn’t follow through with this, he’d show himself to be a coward to Jim.  To him.  That wasn’t going to happen.

The fire of that thought spurred Sherlock’s motions, he pushed Sebastian onto his back and crawled into his lap, fingers laced tight through his short pale hair, pillaging the man’s mouth with an escalating frenzy.  His hand slipped down the broad muscled chest, reaching down to cup Sebastian’s crotch.  Sebastian snatched Sherlock’s hand at the wrist and wrenched his mouth away from the detective.  “Whoa.  Not sure you want to do that,” he said with a little awkward laugh.

“Thought this was what you wanted,” Sherlock muttered, nibbling at Sebastian’s neck.

“Ah… Heh, well.  Hey.  Hold up a minute.”  Sebastian grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders and tried to push him back, but he squirmed out of the grasp, his hand trailing back down Sebastian’s stomach.  He wasn’t going to lose this game.

“I said stop,” Sebastian growled, grabbing Sherlock and tossing him down on the bed with surprising ease. 

Sherlock blinked up at the sniper and grumbled, “Don’t tell me you were all talk before.”

Sebastian froze a moment, blinking down at Sherlock as if he weren’t quite sure who he were looking at.  “Are you doing this because you want to, or because in that vague little tit-a-tat you two just had, he somehow forced you,” Sebastian said, breathless, his pale skin flush, but his blue eyes flashing bright as they spared his grinning boss a suspicious glance.

“Did it sound like I forced him,” Jim grumbled, a touch of insult in his tone.

“When you two talk between words, how am I supposed to know,” Sebastian snapped.  “One minute you’re ordering a hit on his brother, the next you’re sounding suicidal and in the next he’s in my lap like a cat in heat while you look like you swallowed the canary.  So yeah, it did kind of look like that!”

Sherlock stared at Sebastian dumbfounded.  He was being, kind of … nice.  It was a touch familiar, with enough difference to be interesting.  “You made fun of me about John,” he said without breaking his gaze from the sniper above him, categorizing him, deducing him with fresh eyes.  Jim had no room to throw stones.  Sebastian was just like John, a mirror.   A darker, more murderous mirror, but just as loyal, just as chivalrous, just as unwilling to take shit from a genius companion past a certain point.

“Shut up,” Jim said, pouting slightly.  Whether from the intermission in his show or the insinuation that he had somehow intentionally sought out his own version of Sherlock’s companion, there was no way to be sure.

Sherlock chuckled, sitting up to curl behind Sebastian. He rest his chin over the broad shoulder, coyly tracing a pattern along one of his biceps.  “Mimicry it the surest sign of flattery.”  Sherlock gasped at a thought, then grinned at Jim.  “Or where you jealous?”

Sebastian huffed.  “Speak English.”

Jim cocked his head to the side as though Sherlock were actually managing to irritate him, looking straight through Sebastian.  “Hardly.  He’s straight.”

“Am not,” Sebastian snapped.

“Shut up,” Jim and Sherlock snapped at once.

Sherlock curled his fingers against Sebastian’s skin, digging in.  “If you think – “

“I know.  Don’t forget who you’re talking to sexy.”

Sherlock huffed.  “Fine.  I did, but that doesn’t take away from the fact that you intentionally sought- “

“It’s coincidence,” Jim continued.

“The universe is rarely so lazy,” Sherlock drawled. 

“Like you’d know anything about the universe.”

Sherlock shrugged, brushing off the familiar barb.  “I know why you thought I’d like him now.  You’ll have to teach me which buttons to push to make him more like this.”

“If you can’t figure it out yourself, perhaps I’ve misjudged how interesting you are,” Jim grumbled, but the light in his dark eyes showed he was pleased Sherlock had seen.

Through the entire exchange, Sebastian’s body became increasing tense. He balled his hands into fists and glared down at the ground, breathing sharply through his nose to calm himself down.  John did the same thing.  “Stop that.  Both of you talk like normal bloody people or I’m leaving.”

“Sebastian,” Sherlock tutted low and deep against Sebastian’s ear, confidence blooming in this new scenario.  “We’re not normal.”

Jim lit up with pleasure that Sherlock had embraced the new game.  Crawling forward he slid his hands tantalizing up Sebastian’s chest, teasing his lips over his mouth.  “But we are bloody.” 

Sebastian lifted his head, following Jim’s mouth on instinct, whining slightly as he pulled away.   “Fuck,” he whispered, and his body trembled with arousal under Sherlock’s fingertips.

“That’s the idea Tiger,” Jim purred, curling a hand around the nape of Sebastian’s neck and leaning over him to kiss Sherlock hungrily, while he pressed his small body against the sniper. “Now be a good little pet and open your trousers.  I think Sherlock wanted to touch your pretty cock before you went off on your rude tangent.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Jim, who only shot him a knowing wink back.  Sebastian’s hands trembled, his entire body trembled, as he dutifully and without further comment complied, spreading his knees and opening his pants before hanging his hands to his side, head bowed.  It clicked then.  Humiliation kink?  That had to be part of it.  He’d read about it of course, but had never witnessed it.  He glanced back at Jim.  Considering his play partner, it made sense.  A lot of things about his interactions with the man when it came to Jim now made sense.

Sherlock slid his hand slowly down Sebastian’s chest, teasing his fingertips to brush the crown of his very hard, leaking, thick cock.  “I take it he’s clean,” Sherlock said, clearing his throat and trying to adapt to the scenario. 

Jim snaked his hand down to join Sherlock’s and together they teased Sebastian’s cock between their palms.  “Basher’s not allowed to touch anyone else, are you pet?”

“No boss,” Sebastian replied, his breath hitching.

“He can’t touch, but you let other people touch him,” Sherlock asked, wrapping his hand around the length and beginning to stroke him.

“I’m not in the habit of sharing,” Jim said, mirroring Sherlock’s motions so his hands moved up, while the other slid down.  Sebastian gasped softly, but otherwise remained motionless.

“And yet here I am,” Sherlock said, unsure whether he was reading too much into the situation.

“Here you are,” Jim purred, beaming with self-satisfaction.

Sherlock hummed, eyeing Jim with suspicion.  Games within games.  He loved that about Jim, but sometimes it was infuriating.  He slid his fingers through Sebastian’s hair and yanked his head back.  “So, you haven’t been touched by anyone in a while Moran.  How long has that been exactly?”

A breathy moan escaped Sebastian’s lips as his head was wrenched back, but at the question his eyes lit up with fire.  “Can’t you deduce that detective,” he asked, his voice ragged with need, but his expression pure challenge.  Sherlock pursed his lips, irritation rattling through him and seeing it, Sebastian laughed.  “You’re right boss, he’s a jealous one.”

“All the more reason to show him what an obedient pet you are, Tiger,” Jim said, voice dipping into a familiar soft danger. He removed his hand and turned his body away from the man, as though he were suddenly bored with him.   Sebastian whined at the loss and Sherlock took the cue to give the man a squeeze. 

“I don’t think you’re paying me proper attention Sebastian,” Sherlock said dryly.  Jim shot him an approving smile and Sherlock shivered with the energy of it. 

“Then tell me what to do,” Sebastian whispered, looking up at Sherlock with desperation.

“Answer the question and I’ll consider it,” Sherlock said, feeling a touch cocky in his new role now.

Intriguingly Sebastian looked disappointed.  “Eight months.  The last time he touched me was before you caught me.”

“I caught you, and I set you free again.  I think that makes you mine now really, doesn’t it,” Sherlock mused.  Jim laughed and Sherlock arched a brow at him while Sebastian tensed with alarm as his eyes flicked with anxiety between the two of them.

“Boss,” he said, a question in his tone.

Jim smiled serenely, gazing at Sebastian with curiosity, but he remained silent. 

Sherlock regarded Jim’s lack of response and decided to press the scene.  He tugged Sebastian’s hair and snapped, more insistent now, “Doesn’t it Sebastian?”

Sebastian opened his mouth, struggling to find the words, but no sound came out. 

Sherlock frowned, beginning to feel awkward, when Jim finally interjected.  “Roll with it Tiger.”

“Yes,” the sniper said immediately.  “Yes, I’m yours now.”

Sherlock relaxed.  “Good boy,” he said, tapping Sebastian’s lips.  “You’re probably dying for a taste of Jim, now aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Sebastian whispered.

“You may lick the taste of him off my cock.  Would you like that?”

“Yes.”  Sebastian couldn’t turn around fast enough, instantly dropping down, grabbing Sherlock’s hips, and eagerly licking up the length of his cock before deep throating him with an eager abandon which made Sherlock gasp. 

Sherlock wobbled at the fierceness of it, a whine escaping his throat at the sheer skill with which the man was working his cock.  Jim pressed his body to his back, making Sherlock jump with surprise, he was so lost in trying to keep control of himself while Sebastian’s demanding tongue played him. 

Jim teased his fingers feather light up Sherlock’s chest as his lips ghosted up the nape of his neck.  “Good boy,” the criminal whispered, and Sherlock shivered at the brush of his breath. 

Cool oil dripped onto Sherlock’s tailbone and in a daze, he was dimly aware of Jim working the oil down the cleft of his arse.  “Yes,” he groaned, tilting his hips back for him, Sebastian followed the motion, undeterred, massaging Sherlock’s balls in his palm.  Sherlock bent over Sebastian’s back, biting his lip to restrain the cry of desire as Jim pushed into him. 

Jim pulled Sherlock back upright, holding him flush against his chest and thrusting into him, slow and shallow.  Sebastian grabbed Sherlock’s hips, mouth slack as he let Jim indirectly fuck his mouth with Sherlock’s cock.  Once braced between them, Jim grabbed Sebastian’s head in one hand while pressing the other along the base of Sherlock’s neck with the other and started to fuck in him earnest.  Sebastian moaned around Sherlock’s cock and the vibration seemed to melt in Sherlock’s blood.  The dual assault of sensation was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before and Sherlock couldn’t hold back his moans.  His head fell back against Jim’s shoulder, mouth slack and eyes unfocused, barely registering the gleam of Jim’s grin above him.  Moments later, mindless and floating, Sherlock came hard down Sebastian’s throat.  The sniper eagerly swallowed him down, thoroughly licking his cock clean.  Jim shooed Sebastian out of the way, then pushed Sherlock down on all fours, continuing to rut into him from behind, undeterred. 

In the wake of his orgasm, the continued stimulation verged on too much, but he was too foggy to make any sound beside soft whimpers and gasps.  He was clawing the sheets and on the verge of begging Jim to finish when the criminal finally, finally tensed and filled him with wet heat.  Sherlock collapsed against the mattress, panting raggedly, his pulse thrumming dully in his cock.  Then hands were on his arse and a hot wet tongue began lapping at his hole.  Sherlock lifted his head, but Jim was there, cupping his face in his palms, sliding his tongue into his mouth in long lazy strokes, while Sebastian’s tongue probed the depths of his hole behind him. 

“James,” Sherlock moaned into the man’s mouth.  His cock was already stirring with interest again when Sebastian slid a finger inside him and began massaging his prostrate directly.  “AH!  JIM!” He cried out again. 

“Yes Sherlock,” Jim purred against Sherlock’s gasping mouth, his fingers lovingly caressed the side of his face.  Sherlock tried to glance behind him, but Jim pulled his face forward.  “Look at me honey.  That was a cute little power play you attempted.  Daddy’s proud of you.  But Basher is mine.  My own private sex toy.  Your arse is being eaten out right now because I want it to be, your cock is leaking because I want it to leak for me.  Isn’t it kind of me to share?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Any objections so far?”

Sherlock shivered, panting against Jim’s teeth.  Sebastian’s hand wrapped around his cock, stroking him as his tongue pillaged his hole again.  “No Jim,” he whispered.  “No objection.”

“Why is that now,” Jim hummed, tucking a stray curl behind Sherlock’s ear and continuing to regard him as if he were completely enthralling.

“Ah-Feels … nng-good,” Sherlock groaned, pressing his forehead against Jim’s shoulder and squeezing his eyes against the way the pleasure made them water.  Jim curled his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and held him close, the warmth of his chest, the smell of him, the gentle caresses over his skin, through his hair, thrilling him as much as the skilled ministrations of the man behind him.

“Does it,” Jim hummed in mock surprise.  “If only someone would have told you how much you’d enjoy him before, we could have saved a lot of fuss.”

Sherlock cried out at another wave of pleasure, then grit his teeth.  “Shut up.”

Jim laughed softly, leaning forward to kiss the pout from Sherlock’s lips.  “Will you trust me to try something else that’s new?”

Sherlock melted into the kiss, but was still suspicious.  “What is it?”

Jim snapped his fingers and Sebastian instantly sat back on his heels, removing all contact from Sherlock, head bowed.  Sherlock looked from him to Jim and arched a brow.  Jim had a devilish gleam in his eyes.  “See how well trained he is Sherl?  Nothing to be frightened by.”

“Are you going to tie me up,” Sherlock said, trying to read the situation, and coming up blank.

“Nah.  Bondage doesn’t do it for me, I’m afraid.  It’s more interesting when you willingly comply.”

“Ah,” Sherlock said, then smirked at the man.  “I always thought you were a manipulative shit because you just couldn’t help yourself.  Didn’t realize it got you hard.”

Jim mocked a pained look.  “Oh Sherl.  Are you judging me?”

“No.”

Jim curled around Sherlock, kissing his neck.  “Good.”

Sherlock shuddered, remembering the way Jim had handled him in Irene’s flat, the idea of being disciplined by him wasn’t unappealing.  He shifted anxiously.  “Tell me what you want to do.”

“I already have,” Jim purred, his eyes alight with mischief. 

Sherlock swallowed, his mind quickly indexing back through everything that had been said, what he was saying now.  It took less than 4 seconds before he was rather certain of the answer.  “You want to watch Sebastian have me.”

Jim waived a hand idly.  “That’s general idea.”

“I thought you liked your toys clean.”

“Oh Sherlock,” Jim tsked, tapping the tip of his nose playfully.  “You’re both mine.  Besides, this is about expanding your horizons.”

Jim had called him his.  That alone made this tempting.  Sherlock glanced at Sebastian.  “What about you?  What do you think of this?”

Sebastian glanced up from his position, meeting Sherlock’s eyes.  “You know I’m keen.   But only if you are.”

Sherlock looked back to Jim.  “If I say No?”

Jim looked surprised.  “No?”  He feigned thoughtfulness, tapping his chin, and looking at the ceiling.  “Well I suppose I can think of one or two other things we could do.” 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around Jim and pulled him into his lap.  “I like the idea of you being the only one to have me that way.”

Jim hummed, eyeing Sherlock as if he were skeptical. 

Sherlock kissed along his jawline.  “You’re disappointed.”

“No.  I just don’t understand.  Is this because you’re afraid or because you think it’s what I want?”

“Considering how you’ve put Sebastian under glass, I’d assume it’s a thing with you.”

“Basher has had a wide swath of sexual experiences before he met me.  You.  I’m educating you.  How do you know that you aren’t enamored with me simply because you’ve never experienced anyone else?”

“It’s not about sex with you.”

Jim barked a laugh.  “Oh!?  Well then, we’ve had a massive communication breakdown darling.”

Sherlock grimaced.  “I’m interested in sex because it’s with you.”

“And Irene.”

 Sherlock sighed, then pulled Jim closer, kissed him, thread his fingers through his dark hair.  “I don’t want anyone else inside me.”

“You’re missing out,” Jim hummed, tilting his head into the touch.  Sherlock loved it when he did that.   “Sebastian is very, very good.”

“I have no doubt, but I’m quite certain on this point,” Sherlock said, running his hands over Jim’s body, trying to keep the man from seeing how insecure he was feeling about whether his wishes would be heeded. 

Jim relaxed in Sherlock’s arms and settled in his lap. “All right sexy,” Jim murmured against Sherlock’s lips, his fingers twining playfully around a curl behind his ear.  “I’ll slow down for you.”

Sherlock pressed his forehead against Jim’s.  He exhaled deeply, relieved.  He ran his hands along Jim’s skin, enjoying the feel of him.

Jim curled against him, pressing himself into Sherlock’s touch as their fingers explored the planes of each other’s bodies.  A hot pant brushed Sherlock’s mouth when he palmed Jim’s cock.  Sherlock glanced back at Sebastian over his shoulder, who watching the two of them with rapt attention, slowly stroking his own cock.  “We can still play with him though.  I know you’ve been looking forward to it and I get it.  Just not past that point.”

Jim chuckled, regarding Sebastian with a smirk.  “Sherlock seems to like playing with you when it’s on his terms.”

Sebastian blinked, then leaned back, a cocky grin quirking on his lips.  “Well, I am irresistible.”  He met Sherlock’s eyes, but made no move.  “How do you want me then detective?’

Jim nuzzled the crook of Sherlock’s neck, murmuring.  “He’s good with his hands.”

Sherlock nipped at Jim’s ear while regarding Sebastian.  “Show me soldier.”


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone. Thank you so much for putting up with the length of time between publications. I am at the end of my MBA program and schoolwork took priority, as I'm sure many of you can understand.
> 
> I have two weeks off before my capstone project for the MBA is complete. On June 16th, I will be free from school and able to spend more time writing. 
> 
> Apologies again for the delays and thank you for your patience.

It’s subtle, but distinct, the way that Sebastian reminds Sherlock of John. It’s the eyes. The way they light up, boyish and eager, but dangerous around the edges. Just out of sight, restrained. By a thread. 

Adrenaline junkies, the both of them. The two soldiers craved danger the same way Sherlock and Jim craved mental challenge. At the moment, Sebastian looked at Sherlock the way that John used to, like he were the most remarkable thing in the world. He had always been susceptible to having his ego stroked, had always thought it was the only touch which could ever bring him pleasure.

Sebastian’s large hands ran up his thighs, testing the hypothesis. His body followed in a fluid slide until their chests touched. He wrapped his hands around Sherlock’s cock and the detective gasped. He’d been wrong before. 

Jim pressed behind him, his wicked mouth brushing soft kisses along his shoulder, his clever hands caressing his back. Sherlock melted into Jim’s touch, grateful for the reminder that he was still there. Sebastian grinned into Sherlock’s face before he claimed his mouth. Hard and firm, a hand slid behind Sherlock’s head and he was pulled into a kiss that took his breath away. When Sherlock closed his eyes, he could imagine it was John. It was the way he’d always imagined John would have kissed him. 

Loyal, fierce, brave John. His best friend. Who could never want him like this. The way Sherlock could never admit that he wanted him to. It was no one’s fault. John just wasn’t made this way. Sherlock read as much the day they first met. Being his best friend was good too. It was better than just good, it was fantastic. John was the very best of men and Sherlock knew he was lucky to have such a person by his side in any capacity. But if he had ever said that he had never thought of John and wondered, what if, then he had lied. 

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and whimpered into the kiss. Jim laughed softly behind him, his breath brushing the shell of his ear. “You can call him John, if you want to sexy.”

Damn him for seeing, for knowing. He’d known at the pool. He’d known at the hotel. He’d always known how Sherlock felt about John, how he would react to Sebastian, once he saw, once he understood the parallel. Damn him for being so stupidly clever that it made Sherlock hard to the point of desperation. God he loved him.

“I don’t mind,” Sebastian mumbled against Sherlock’s lips, giving them a nip.

“Shut up,” Sherlock grumbled. It was almost too much. He had to open his eyes to remind himself who was kissing him. Break the spell. He was surprised to find that it did not help alleviate the long-repressed lust roiling through his blood. “You’re Jim’s creature.”

Sebastian grinned at him knowingly, but he didn’t laugh at him. He was kinder than Jim. Kinder than Sherlock. He shifted a bit uncomfortably when he realized that, in this too, they were alike. Jim’s body pressed firmly behind him blocking retreat. Sebastian brushed their lips together softly. “True,” he said, “That doesn’t mean that I can’t be something you need as well.” Then the soldier crushed his mouth to Sherlock’s lips, pulling a moan from him.

He wasn’t sure why he hesitated, or why his hands trembled when he reached out to return the touch. His fingertips grazed the broad muscled chest, reading the terrain of the scars etched there like an autobiography. The bullet from a Russian job gone wrong, the machete from a Columbian night when a poker game morphed into heated argument, the switchblade from a turned informant in the U.S., the jagged piece of shrapnel earned in her majesty’s service in Afghanastan, the thin fine lines etched in signature when he sold his soul to the devil. Sherlock’s fingers lingered on Jim’s initials above Sebastian’s hip, tracing the letters back and forth. 

Sebastian held Sherlock’s fingers and brought them up to his lips, kissing his fingertips. “Stop thinking,” he said quietly.

“You can’t make me,” Sherlock retorted back, watching Sebastian’s lips brush over violin callouses. 

Sebastian paused, opening his bright blue eyes, lit with mirth. “Oh, if anyone can, I’m your man. I think I’m the only person in the world with extensive experience on the matter.” 

Jim chuckled behind him and for some reason, a flush of embarrassment rippled through his body. Sherlock scowled. “It’s not the same.”

“Looks the same to me,” Sebastian said as he picked Sherlock up and pulled him into his lap. He grabbed a fistful of Sherlock’s hair and pulled his head back, grinning into his defiant glare. “Looks identical.” 

Sherlock struggled in Sebastian’s hold, but the soldier held him firmly in place. He grabbed Sherlock and roughly manhandled him back into place on his lap, giving his hair a sharp tug. “Are you scared kitten? Do you want to run back to Jim and command him to make love to you?”

Sherlock bristled, hissing, “Fuck you.”

Sebastian didn’t so much as flinch, instead meeting Sherlock’s eyes with cold granite in his eyes as he leaned forward. Sherlock tensed for a fight, which is why it shocked him rigid when Sebastian planted a gentle kiss on his forehead, whispering in tease. “Is that an order?”

“I- I-Ah!,” Sherlock fumbled, disoriented in the argument, gasping when Sebastian’s large hand pushed their cocks together and began to stroke, slow and firm. He squirmed in Sebastian’s lap, keenly aware of how his bare bottom rubbed against the man’s muscular thighs. Sebastian guided Sherlock’s head to rest against his shoulder, then ran his palm down the detective’s back, brushing his tailbone, all the while teasing their erections, pressing the tips together, mingling their precum and spreading it over their shafts. 

Sebastian slipped a finger inside of him, then a second, pumping the digits in and out his widening hole as he worked their increasingly hot flesh together, the wet sound of it filling the room obscenely. Almost as obscene as the way Sherlock was moaning and clinging to Sebastian’s muscular back despite himself. He worked Sherlock just to the point of climax, then stopped, leaving the detective panting and wanting long enough for his heartbeat to slow and his skin to just begin cool before starting again.

By the third time Sebastian had done this to him Sherlock was desperate and growling with frustration, thrusting into the man’s hand with eager need. “Get on with it,” he panted against the man’s neck when he was denied once again. 

Sebastian’s fingers raked through Sherlock’s damp curls. “Or else what,” he challenged in a soft deep tone, tinged with mirth.

Sherlock leaned back to look Sebastian in the eyes with a level haughty stare. “Or I’ll get bored.”

Sebastian laughed with pure delight. “Oh. That is a scary thought.” His gaze flicked past Sherlock’s shoulder for a moment then lit up. He spun Sherlock around abruptly and Jim’s dark eyes, black and wide, filled his vision. Nose to nose, he could feel the criminal’s soft breath against his lips as he felt Sebastian’s cock slide between his arse cheeks.

He opened his mouth to protest, but Sebastian gave his bottom a quick swat. “I’m not going to penetrate you. Relax.” 

Strong hands massaged his flesh, pressing his cheeks together as Sebastian worked his cock between them, rocking Sherlock’s body up and down. Sherlock’s face flushed when he realized how Sebastian was using him. He began to glance back at the sniper, but Jim’s hand touched his cheek, gently guiding him back. 

“Jim,” he said, part question, part plea. 

Jim smiled that soft innocent boyish smile that never quite reaches his eyes. “Hi,” he said so softly that it could easily be mistaken by anyone else as shy.

Sherlock pulled the criminal to him, ran his fingers through his hair, kissed him, held him as if he were the only stable ground in world gone mad. The irony of that thought did not escape him. And Jim seemed to sense it because the lips which pressed against his own curved into a crooked, cruel smile.

Jim’s fingertips caressed the underside of Sherlock’s shaft, feather-light and barely there, and yet the path of his touch left a burning trail in their wake. Sherlock moaned into Jim’s mouth, fingers tightening in his short dark hair, crushing him close as he mirrored the touch, pleased to find Jim’s slight frame shudder ever so slightly in response. 

Sebastian’s teeth raked across Sherlock’s shoulder, pulling his head back by his hair, breaking Jim’s kiss. Sherlock squirmed against it until Jim hot tongue trailed up his throat, from hollow to the tip of his chin, then biting just behind his jaw, sucking a bruise into his skin just as his hands curled around his cock and began to stroke him. Sebastian’s teeth sunk in on the opposite side, biting the lobe of his ear before sucking a matching bruise in his skin. 

Sebastian grabbed Jim by the arse and pulled him in, crushing him against Sherlock. Jim responded by undulating his body against Sherlock, thrusting against his stomach. Pressed tight between the two, with Sebastian sliding along his arse and Jim against his stomach, Sherlock’s head fizzled with a floating static he’d only found in the occasional high. The two criminals kissed over his shoulder, a clash of teeth and deep growl from either or both and Sherlock’s breath stuttered as he tipped over the edge.

The afternoon into the evening felt like a fever dream Sherlock would recall vividly for years to come in snapshots of erotic ecstasy. Sebastian lifted Sherlock, bracing his thighs apart with his forearms, opening him for Jim to take him. Sherlock’s back arched over Sebastian’s chest and his moans echoed in the room. Jim’s soft voice teased his ears in gaelic, but he spoke to Sebastian, and the sniper responded in kind. Sherlock struggled to make a mental note to learn the language.

Sebastian’s hot mouth enveloped his cock, moaning against his flesh, making Sherlock arch against the bed. Through eyes barely open under the haze of lust, Sherlock saw Jim behind the sniper, pounding into the man with more force than he’d ever used on him. A competitive fire sparked inside Sherlock’s chest at the sight and he vowed he’d be every bit the lover to Jim that Sebastian had ever been and more.

When Sherlock took Sebastian, he was surprised to find the slick slide of Jim’s cum inside the man such an erotic elation. He gripped the sniper’s muscular arse, determined to take him as hard and ruthlessly as Jim had, but Sebastian pushed back against him, tightening his muscles to a strange rhythm which made Sherlock cry out in a stuttering groan. Beneath Sebastian, Jim laughed. Sherlock growled and snapped forward, slamming Sebastian’s cock deeper into the man, turning his mirth into a moan. 

He lay spent so many times over he’d lost count, watching as Jim rode Sebastian’s cock while gripping his throat, cutting off the sniper’s breath. Sherlock’s fingers twitched through the drowsy haze, wanting to touch, but too beyond himself to move. Sebastian came with a strangled gaping whine and Jim released his death grip. Sebastian gasped for air then fell back, back arching as his prolonged orgasm shuddered through him while Jim intently watched his face as if quantifying the results of an experiment. His dark eyes flicked to Sherlock and he grinned, crawling toward the detective like a predator on the hunt.

Sherlock’s breath stuttered and he looked up at Jim with a weak smile. “I can’t,” he said.

“You can,” Jim replied, ever so gently. He lifted Sherlock’s hands up and pressed them around his throat. Sherlock’ felt the vibration of Jim’s voice through his fingers when he added, “I’ll show you.”

When he awoke, tangled between the limbs of the two men, morning light seeped along the distant horizon. He wasn’t sure what time or day it was and he blinked blearily, trying to regain his sense of space and time. Sebastian stirred behind him, his hand sliding up his thigh. He opened his mouth mumble some gentle rebuff when Jim pulled him down, kissing him with hunger.

Sherlock laughed against Jim’s lips. “You can’t be serious,” he said, his body sore, but still responding nevertheless to the way Jim pressed against his chest.

“Oh I am,” Jim whispered, the dark glint back in his eye. “Deadly so.”

“Jesus,” Sherlock whispered.

“Not quite,” Jim purred and pulled him under once more.

It was only much later that Sherlock could work out that Jim had kept him under this spell for nearly three days.


	33. Chapter 33

Sherlock pulled the covers up to shield his eyes from the harsh morning sun. Finding no resistance to the tug of fabric, his eyes shot open and he found himself alone in the luxuriously large bed. He sat bolt upright and scanned the room. Jim’s clothes were gone. The scent of a coffee and a freshly cooked breakfast filled the air. 

He pulled on a pair of pants and yawned as he made his way with forced nonchalance to the kitchen. He knew Jim had vanished again, but he didn’t want to believe it. Rounding the corner he saw Sebastian eating by a bay window overlooking the sea. “Where is he,” Sherlock said flatly.

Sebastian’s hand paused just as he’d bitten into a piece of toast. He met Sherlock’s eyes with some surprise then dropped it onto his plate. “He said you’d be out longer than that.”

Sherlock scowled. “He drugged me again? When?”

Sebastian shrugged. “Let me get you something to eat.”

“I’m not hungry. Tell me where he is.”

Sebastian ignored Sherlock and went to the kitchen to load up an obscene amount of eggs, beans, ham, and toast. He slid the plate across the kitchen island, the glide of ceramic against tile making a near musical, grating tone until it came to a stop in front of the detective. 

Sherlock scowled down at the plate, refusing to touch it. 

“He’s working,” Sebastian said with a heavy sigh, nudging the plate closer to the sulking man.

“He’s retired from crime,” Sherlock snapped.

“Who said he was committing a crime?”

Sherlock arched a brow at that. “He has a legitimate occupation? What does he do?”

Sebastian chuckled. “Eat your breakfast. Jim told me to make sure you eat something.”

Sherlock pulled up a stool and reluctantly sat in front of the large meal. Under Sebastian’s expectant gaze, he sighed and stabbed a forkful of eggs. He shoved the food into his mouth and glared at the sniper, swallowing hard. “I ate. Now tell me.”

“He’s a college professor,” Sebastian said flatly. “Physics, maths, stuff like that.”

Sherlock snorted. “He’s not that stupid. Even if he changes his name, his face has been plastered all over the news. One of his students will eventually see -“

“No one sees his face. He teaches online. Had someone else play him for the occasional face to face interview, but he teaches the courses.”

“I can’t imagine him having the patience for dealing with idiot students.”

“His classes have a reputation for being real killers,” Sebastian said with a laugh.

“I can imagine,” Sherlock grumbled. “But the appeal for someone like him is completely lost on me.”

Sebastian shrugged. “He hasn't explained to me why he does it, but personally I think it’s another of his larks, another identity to play with.”

“Another skin to crawl into, a different life, a different … him,” Sherlock replied in a near whisper. He caught Sebastian looking at him intensely and looked away. Perhaps the draw of it did make sense for someone like Jim. So the identities weren’t just a tool for his criminal ventures. Self-therapy? A coping mechanism? Or just a remedy to ennui, to defy the limitation of having only one life to live.

Sebastian tapped the plate in front of Sherlock. “Eat a bit more.” Sherlock relaxed a bit and began to eat. 

Sebastian grinned and reached out to stroke his cheek, but Sherlock pulled away. “Don’t.”

“Why not,” Sebastian said with a small smirk, seeming to already know the answer.

“Jim’s not here.” Sherlock continued to eat unperturbed.

“So next time Jim’s with us -“

Sherlock paused, looking up at him. Oh he was really not good at this. “Look, Sebastian… I’m flattered, but this isn’t a regular thing,” he said cautiously. “Jim was helping me … experiment.”

“And the experiment was not to your liking Mr. Holmes,” Sebastian said with a hurt tone to his voice, but a spark of mirth in his blue eyes. 

Sherlock frowned. He wasn’t sure how to deal with this. Irene was the type to avoid attachments, but Sebastian was definitely attached to at least one of them, perhaps both now. He opened his mouth, but words defied him. After a moment of struggling he blurted out, “I love Jim.”

Sebastian’s eyes widened a moment, then he laughed and ruffled Sherlock’s hair. “Good. Eat your breakfast.”

Sherlock brushed away Sebastian’s hand grumpily. “What is his location?”

“Don’t know this time,” Sebastian shrugged. “He’ll be in touch. Now for the last time Sherlock, eat! I have to take you back home.”

Unappeased, Sherlock reluctantly returned his attention back to his meal, stabbing at it repeatedly until the food was in tattered mash. His thoughts were unable to pull away from the perpetually elusive man who had come to invade his every waking thought. Had Jim ever felt this way about him at some point between Carl Powers and their final game. Had Jim ever truly obsessed about him the way Sherlock was now? 

Half a day later Sherlock was tucked safely back into Baker Street and Sebastian had vanished once again. If it weren’t for the dull aches of his body, he could swear the past three days had been nothing but a fever dream. Mycroft was the first to visit him, disapproval etched onto his face as he easily accurately read the nature of what his little brother had been up to, but unable to get a confession to confirm it. He left abruptly after dropping a few additional threats against Jim which Sherlock continued to brush off as his brother’s private delusion. Perhaps if he said it often enough, his brother would begin to doubt his own hypothesis and give up on the chase. It was unlikely, but in his more deluded moments, Sherlock hoped. 

Once alone, he paced his room, grabbing the violin to work out some of the anxiety he’d built up in the encounter. Mycroft was a threat to Jim. A threat which, if successful, also threatened Sherlock’s efforts to woo the man. Nothing puts a damper on romance like an intrusive big brother, or a boyfriend intent on killing your said brother. Was it possible to keep them separate indefinitely? No. Possible, but not at all likely.

He was so lost in his thoughts on this problem that John’s voice asking him where the tea was startled him out of his reverie. “I’m sorry what?”

“Tea,” John said, holding up an empty cup. “Where did you move it?”

“How long have you been here,” Sherlock said, blinking rapidly as he set his violin down.

“About an hour. I said hello. Saw Mycroft leaving in the hallway in a foul mood. Did you two have a spat?”

Sherlock sniffed in disdain. “We don’t have spats.”

“Right,” John said, staring at Sherlock a moment before giving up and turning back to the kitchen to rummage around the drawers. 

“I’ll get it,” Sherlock said, striding into the kitchen to pull the tea and biscuits from a top cabinet. 

“Why did you put them up there,” John said, taking the items and starting the water. 

Sherlock flopped into one of the kitchen chairs and pushed his own teacup across the table toward John in silent command to make him one too. “So shorter men don’t throw them out to replace them with their own brand.”

At first John looked baffled then his eyes widened. “He’s been here?”

“Who?” Sherlock’s head fell back lazily as he stared up at the ceiling.

“You know who. Does he come to your flat for-” John cleared his throat and looked at his feet in embarrassment.

“For what?”

“Your ‘dates’,” John blurted out.

“Rarely, but yes.” Sherlock huffed. “Do you disapprove?”

“No,” John said a little too quickly before regaining his composure. “No. I mean it’s your business, right? But isn’t that a little dangerous with Mycroft always around?”

“Yes,” Sherlock sighed, then his head snapped up. That’s right, he could talk to John about this now. “What do people do on proper dates?”

“What?” John blinked at Sherlock in complete bafflement. “Are you asking me for advice for how to date Moriarty?”

“You’re right, stupid idea,” Sherlock said, flopping back again. “Your track record is abysmal. I assume Mary took the lead in your courtship.”

John laughed. “Mary did not take the lead.”

“Hmmmmm.”

“Sherlock. Between the two of this I think it’s fair to say that I’m the expert in this area.”

“I’ll just ask Mary,” Sherlock shrugged. 

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock smirked as he looked at his friend, then straightened. “Okay then. What do I do to make it about more than sex for him?”

John immediately blushed, but otherwise kept his composure. He pulled up a chair and poured the tea for both of them, then sat down, running his hands over his face. “Okay. Wow. I - this is a strange talk to have with you.”

“Indeed.”

John took a deep breath then looked at Sherlock levelly. “Right. This is what friends do, help each other work through things. This is good. 

Sherlock arched a brow skeptically. “Yes…?”

John thought a moment then began in all earnestness. “Alright. So first, how much time do you spend together doing something besides sex?”

Sherlock looked back at John blankly. He was silent for a pregnant moment before slowly repeating, “Something besides sex? Like what? Sex is what people do. I’ve watched you all act like fools over it for years.”

“No,” John began, shaking his head. He took a deep breath. “Well yes, but no.”

“You’re not making sense,” Sherlock grumbled. 

“Well a lot of it doesn’t make sense. But at its core, to have a real relationship with someone, you have to actually like the person.”

“I like him.”

“And you have to like spending time with them and like the same things.”

“Okay. He and I have that.” Sherlock brightened a bit with a small measure of accomplishment.

“Great. What have the two of you done together?” John looked at Sherlock expectantly and this time Sherlock flushed with embarrassment. John’s expression fell. “You’ve just been having sex, haven’t you.”

“How do I fix it,” Sherlock said softly.

“No!” John held up his hands. “I’m not saying - look you’ve done nothing wrong. Physical attraction is usually a start.” He sighed. “God I’m rubbish at this. Feels like I’m giving the talk to a teenager.” 

Sherlock glared at John and the doctor continued hurriedly. “Okay. Look. A relationship is essentially a more intimate version of a friendship.”

“I don’t think Jim does friends.”

“Neither did you at first, but you’ve made exceptions and grown beyond that. I’m sure he could too,” John said with a reassuring smile.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You’re scared of Jim,” he said, suddenly suspicious. “You’re being awful lenient toward his personality all of the sudden.”

“I am not scared of Moriarty,” John grumbled, but he softened when he saw the doubt in his friend’s eyes. He took a breath, then began again. “Here’s the thing, it doesn’t matter what I think. You like him. You want him. If he makes you happy, then I’m happy for you so long as he doesn’t hurt you, and please god no one else. That’s what friends do.”

“So you’ve forgiven him for the semtex vest?” 

John’s lips disappeared into a thin line and he breathed sharply through his nose. “Do you want my advice or not?”

“Fine.”

“Yes or no Sherlock,” John said.

“Yes! Fine. How do I make him love me back?”

John stared at Sherlock in surprise. “You- you love him?”

Sherlock bristled. “Is that surprising? I've said it before.”

“No - I mean yeah, kind of, I don’t know. You've admitted it before. It’s just not something you usually say that easily.” John paused a moment as if processing the very idea. “Have you told him?

“Yes, but he just brushes it off and calls me an idiot.”

“Well you are an idiot. How did you tell him?”

Sherlock took a breath then began, “Well, first I tied him up then -“

“Moriarty let’s you - You know what, I don’t need to know.” John pinched the bridge of his nose. “How about this. Next time you’re with him, don’t have sex.”

Sherlock stared at John a minute. “Okay. What will that accomplish?”

“A chance to get to know each other.”

“We know each other,” Sherlock said, waving a hand dismissal. 

“Intimately get to know each other.”

“We’ve been intimate,” Sherlock said, frustration growing at this looping logic.

“No! Sex is an intimate act, yes, but it doesn’t guarantee real intimacy by itself. Do something together that will be a bonding experience.”

“Such as?”  
“Go to a play, take him out to eat, go for a walk.”

“Boring. He’d find it boring too.”

“What would he not find boring then?”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed as he thought on it. He opened his mouth, but John cut him off. “That doesn’t involve murder or explosions or high treason,” the doctor sighed with exacerbation.

Sherlock shut his mouth abruptly. John shook his head, seeming to struggle with this conversation as much as the detective was. Finally Sherlock muttered, “He likes stars.”

“Stars? As in the solar system, astronomy?”

“Yes,” Sherlock mumbled, knowing where this was going.

“Well you’re fucked then,” John said, sitting back in his chair and shaking his head.

“Hey!”

“Kidding,” John said with a grin. “Sort of. Right. Astronomy, that’s a good start. You can swot up on it. Plan an outing around that.”

“He’ll know I’m doing it for him.”

“Yeah,” John said, looking at Sherlock like he were incredibly thick. “That’s the point. It’s a gesture.”

“What gesture?”

John held his palms out, an open move, suggesting he was trying to be honest. “A gesture of your feelings Sherlock. Sometimes actions speak louder than words. If all you’re doing is sex it only communicates that you want sex. If you do something together with him that’s for him expecting nothing in return, then that communicates something else entirely.”

“Right, that I’m willing to be his equal in all things.” Sherlock nodded solemnly, new determination springing in chest.

“God no! That you value him,” John gaped. 

“Oh. But I do value him.”

“Does he know that? Does he really know that?”

“I- I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted. He sank into thought, replaying every interaction he’d had with Jim until that moment. Everything had been catered to him, even recent engagement with Sebastian had been mostly focused on him. Of course, that might have to do with the framework of how Sherlock had begun this arrangement. His thoughts turned to that first night in the hotel, the amount of attention Jim had put into their rendezvous, then cringed at the tardy half-thought out gestures he’d given in return. John was right, he needed to change his approach. But if he was going to change the framework between them then that would mean …

John’s laugh broke his train of thought. “Look at you. It’s for real. Christ, am I really helping you romance the most dangerous criminal in the world?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said with a smile. “That’s what friends do.”

John laughed. “Yes. I suppose it is.”


	34. Chapter 34

It was a point of pride for Sherlock, being able to find nearly anyone.  He'd tracked some of the most skilled men and women in the world who had managed to elude the reach of even Mycroft's best operatives, but Jim Moriarty's talent for vanishing was in a league all its own.  It was infuriating.  It was intoxicating.   

Six weeks of applied effort were to no avail.  In that time Sherlock mused on what he could do to romance the master criminal.  To seduce more than his mind or his body, to capture his heart.  Presuming, of course, that he had one at all.  Ah!  And wasn't that the dilemma? 

Two sociopaths in love.  Was that even possible?   If it was, the implications of their mutual affliction did present risks to the survivability of such a union.  And that was what Sherlock wanted.  Surely it must be.  For wasn't that the end of every love story?  They lived happily ever after.  What were the chances of that for men like them? 

Like them.  What were they like exactly?  To the outside world that was easy.  They were like whatever the circumstance or situation required them to be, until the moment they achieved what they wanted.  To themselves?  They were isolated within minds moving at the speed of light, drowning in sights and sounds that the rest of the world was deaf and blind to.  To each other?  Now there was the mystery.  The undefined variable, stretching to infinity, irrational and unsolvable.  Sherlock smiled at the thought.  Perhaps that was the very source of the appeal.   

But could that be the appeal for Jim?  For Sherlock, a man who sought to keep his starved mind constantly occupied, oh god yes.  It was a bottomless well he'd happily dive into.  But as similar as they were, in this, Jim seemed different.  His emotional erraticism, his constant flight, his destructive tendencies, and yes perhaps even a genuine deathwish were all indicative of a person who didn't want to drown out the noise, so much as force it into submission, into silence.  Even his fascination with that cold, dark vacuum hovering beyond this world, it all fit the model.  Stars that burn bright, silent and untouchable. Like him.  

So Sherlock stopped looking for Jim.  He went about his life and tried to still the flickering doubts which tugged at him. He fell back into the rhythm of routine.  Solving cases, seeing friends, but never straying from London.  He would be silent.  He would be still.  Let Jim come to him. 

Two weeks later, he did.   

Ascending the stairs of his flat, Sherlock sensed Jim was there before he saw him. There were no clues to deduce the fact, he just knew, and that was a bit disconcerting. It didn’t make any logical kind of sense of course and the oddity of his certainty without evidence or cause almost made him ignore the feeling. Almost. It was enough for him to halt on the stairwell and turn to John, insist he was too tired for company after all and wish him well on his way out.  
John, of course, didn’t buy it, but played along good-naturedly, sparing only a single knowing glance up to Sherlock’s door. “Be careful, yeah,” was all he said.

“Of course,” Sherlock replied, but his mind was already fixated, his pulse quickening with the unique flavor of adrenaline which only ever had one name. Moriarty.

The flat appeared empty when he first stepped inside, but Sherlock locked the door behind him all the same. After a quick scan, he noticed his closed bedroom door and grinned. He approached silently, his heartbeat thrumming in his ears. He reached out for the door when it opened and Jim emerged from the shadow of the bedroom. He flopped lazily against the frame looking up at him with a wry twist to his mouth. “You’re late.”

Sherlock drank in the sight of him. Fresh pressed in the clean lines of a newly tailored, charcoal gray Prada suit. He looked rested, present, stable. Well, stable for him.

“I didn’t realize we had an appointment.”

Jim sighed dramatically then snatched Sherlock’s shirt, pulling him into the warm bedroom, then shoved him back against the door, slamming it back shut with the weight of him. Sherlock gasped and Jim took a single step toward him, downcast brown eyes slowly grazing up the detective’s body until their gaze met and locked. Jim’s lips slid into a lopsided little grin. “You stopped calling,” he said softly.

“You never answered.” Sherlock stretched out a hand toward him, but Jim swayed back, just out of reach. 

“Doesn’t mean I don’t like to see you try.”

Sherlock laughed bitterly. “You don’t like me needy.”

Jim took a step back toward him and lifted his head, rocking up on his toes so his lips hovered inches from Sherlock’s. “Did I say that,” he whispered, his gaze lifting from lips to eyes, but refusing to close the distance.

Sherlock swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“Ah.” Jim rocked back on his heels and looked into some unseen far distance for a moment, then his attention snapped back to Sherlock with razor sharp intensity. He radiated mischief. “Must’ve been crazy.” He laughed, but it was good natured and self-deprecating.

Sherlock felt tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding lift from his shoulders. He slid his hands around Jim’s slim waist and pulled him closer. “Are you better?”

“Better?” Jim hissed through his teeth and rolled his head on his neck. “Better than what, Sherlock?” He tutted at Sherlock’s stricken look. “Better than most. Better than you. Yes.”

Sherlock kissed Jim’s forehead softly. “I’m glad.”

Jim scowled up at the spot where gentle affection had been inflicted upon him, then grabbed Sherlock’s shirt, crashing their bodies together as he ghosted his lips up Sherlock’s jaw. “Enough small talk. I need to fuck,” he whispered, his hands sliding down Sherlock’s stomach and undoing his belt.

Being near Jim was like a drug and Sherlock would always be an addict. He was painfully hard in moments and there was nothing more he wanted in that instant than to give in to this. His mind moved faster than his body, he remembered what John had said about defining their relationship around sex, so instead he gasped out, “Wait.” just as Jim’s fingers dipped under the waistband of his pants. 

Jim’s hand froze and his lashes lifted to reveal a cool hard darkness constricting. He said nothing, waiting patiently, but as though daring Sherlock to speak.

Sherlock swallowed. “I- This isn’t how- It’s not what I want.” 

He knew it was the wrong thing to say the instant it left his lips.

Jim’s hand snapped back as if he’d been bitten and he took a couple of slow steps backward. “Not what you want,” he repeated gently. Then his face twisted into a vicious scowl and he snarled, “Of course it’s always about what you want, isn’t it Sherlock.”

Sherlock reached out to him, but Jim looked out the outstretched hand as if the very gesture offended him. “Let me take you out somewhere. Somewhere you’ll like.”

Jim turned his back on him, running his hands over his face groaning, “No. No. Boring. Why do you insist on being boring.”

“It’s-“

“If you say it’s what normal people do I’m going to seriously kill you Sherlock,” Jim muttered, adding with a growl, “Slowly.”

Sherlock went still. “I love you.”

Jim whirled on him. “STOP SAYING THAT!”

“Why?”

“Because… It’s - not - TRUE!” Jim was livid, vibrating with a new energy that felt as though it were shooting daggers through Sherlock’s gut. Jim tilted his head and looked at Sherlock up and down as if reevaluating a specimen, his voice broke as if a man on the verge of tears. “And if it is then I was wrong, I’ve always been wrong about you.”

“What do you think I am Jim,” Sherlock said.

“Me,” Jim whispered.

“I am.”

“Not if you’re like this.”

“Like what?”

Jim jeered. “Weak,” he hissed.

Sherlock snorted, crossing his arms. “Loving you makes me weak.”

“Loving me makes you a fool,” Jim said, pacing just outside of Sherlock’s reach. 

“I know what I’m doing.”

Jim laughed, shaking his head. 

Sherlock sighed with frustration and walked toward Jim, but the man dodged his open arms, opened the bedroom door and made a beeline toward the exit. Sherlock’s heart seized in his chest and he ran after Jim on long legged strides, just reaching the door of the flat and slamming it back shut by the time Jim began to open it. It slammed back in Jim’s face with a ricocheting snap and the man went completely still beneath Sherlock’s arms. When he turned, ever so slowly around to face the detective, there was genuine murder glinting beneath the serene smile.  
“You have one minute,” he said pleasantly. Sherlock shivered. It was neither fear nor arousal, but something in between. The unspoken threat at the end of that minute clearly understood.

“You think you don’t deserve to be loved,” Sherlock said.

Jim rolled his eyes and groaned. “No one deserves love Sherlock. No one deserves hate. No one deserves wealth, or poverty, or prestige. No one deserves anything.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, mind electrified, heart hammering. “Why?”

Jim snorted, leaning his back against the door and looking up at Sherlock as if he were utterly bored. Not just with him or this situation, but with life itself. “None of it’s real. All arbitrary, all fleeting, all meaningless. Change a single variable and one can become the another. In the end it all reverts to zero. It’s simple.” He licked his lips and let his head fall back against the door. “You’re simple.”

Sherlock’s jaw clenched, but he let that go. John was wrong. This wasn’t a normal romance so normal gestures wouldn’t work here. Dates and dinners and sweet nothings would only irritate Jim, because to him the symbols of affection as well as the intent behind them truly were nothing in his mind, no matter how sweet. That neither confirmed nor denied the possibility that Jim could develop a genuine attachment, but whatever that might look like was outside the standard model. Was that right? It seemed right. But the image of Jim at the hotel with the champagne laid out for two nagged at him. 

“Fifteen seconds,” Jim drawled.

“I’m on the clock?”

“Seems only fair.”

“Isn’t fair an arbitrary sentiment?”

“Oh look. It learns.”

Sherlock swallowed hard, the remaining seconds ticking by in his head like a chorus of drum. Catch his attention. Keep his attention. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Jim cocked his head to the side. “For what?”

“For reducing you to a standard algorithm. That was rude.” Sherlock grabbed Jim and shoved him against the door. He dipped his head down and nipped at the criminal’s ear. “You came here because you wanted me.”

Jim lifted his chin, giving Sherlock better access to his neck. “Did I say that,” he hummed, but the bored intonation was obviously fake. He had the man’s attention.

“Say it now,” Sherlock hummed as he tugged Jim’s tie free.

“Why?”

“Because you won’t be bored.”

Jim laughed, but the bite was gone from it. His posture relaxed and he reached out to brush his fingers down the line of buttons on Sherlock’s shirt. “Hmmmm. Debatable.”

Receptive now. That was interesting. Sherlock slid his fingers through Jim’s hair and pulled his head back. He kissed him hard, pushing a knee between Jim’s leg, feeling further evidence of the criminal’s interest press against his thigh. Definitely wanted. Then why did Jim insist on this artificial barrier between them emotionally? This game? The game. He needed it to be a game. Because … Because -

“Stop it,” Jim growled, breaking the kiss.

“What?”

“Trying to pick me apart while you’re touching me. I won’t let you. Only warning.” Jim glared up at him like coiled snake. 

Sherlock flattened his lips into a thin line as he and Jim held the gaze in a silent stand off. He understood. If Jim felt he were being deduced, then he’d shift personality, play a part, be someone else. Or he’d just leave. Neither option was appealing. Sherlock nodded. “Apologies. Habit.” 

He grabbed either side of Jim’s dress shirt and ripped it open in a single harsh snap. Buttons scattered across the floor and Jim glowered. Sherlock pulled him in, cupping his face with on hand while tugging at Jim’s belt with the other. “I’ll buy you a new one,” he whispered against Jim’s lips before he kissed him again, demanding and hungry. 

When Jim’s eyes slipped shut and he exhaled a shuddering breath through his nose as he returned the kiss with enthusiasm, Sherlock finally relaxed. He tossed Jim’s belt to the floor, tugged open his trousers and palmed his erection through the low cut gray briefs which matched the suit now scattered across the floor. Jim squirmed delightfully in his arms as he teased his palm over the thin barrier of cotton. 

Sherlock broke the kiss and immediately sank to his knees before Jim had a chance to register the change. Jim opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock swallowed his cock and all the criminal managed was a strangled moan. Savoring the small triumph, Sherlock teased his tongue around the strained hot flesh in his mouth, looking up to meet Jim’s eyes. Black eyes blown wide, a flush down his neck, lips parted. Good.

Jim’s fingers slid through Sherlock’s hair and the detective released Jim with a wet pop. “Say you want me,” he said, his voice rougher than he expected.

Jim smirked down at him as his fingers played idly with Sherlock’s curls. “Why?”

“Because I’ll stop if you don’t,” Sherlock said simply, holding Jim’s evaluating stare for a long silent moment, ignoring how deathly still the criminal went. It wasn’t a bluff. It couldn't be for this to work. 

A moment more and Jim blinked, smiling as he looked away. “Wicked thing,” he sighed.

“I think that’s the kettle calling -“

Jim’s attention snapped back to Sherlock. “I want you Sherlock.”

Sherlock stood, pushing into Jim’s space. “Good,” he whispered. He grabbed Jim by the nape of the neck and his waist, pivoted them around, then marched Jim backward into flat. All the while Jim tried and was denied a kiss, but a growing delight gleamed in the madman’s eyes. He liked being surprised. 

Sherlock shoved Jim backward onto the couch then immediately crouched over him. He cupped Jim’s chin in his palm and tilted his face up, leaning in until their lips ghosted over each other. “From now on, if you want something from me, you’ll simply say so. If you dislike an option I offer you, you will decline it. Politely.”

“Will I now? Is that an order,” Jim said, his voice dipping dangerously soft.

“It’s a rule,” Sherlock said, wrapping his fingers around Jim’s cock and stroking a moan from him. He kissed Jim’s throat, shrugging casually. “Just a rule to the game.”

Jim stretched across the couch, pushing his hips up into Sherlock’s grasp. “Hmmm. If we’re making rules, then you will stop saying you love me.” Sherlock hesitated and Jim laughed. “Still hoping I’ll say it back to you?”

“No. I just like saying it.” Sherlock slid his hands down Jim’s inner thigh. “It - um, turns me on.”

“Does it now,” Jim chuckled.

Sherlock brushed his lips down from Jim’s navel. “Yes. It’s nothing, right? Just something said in the heat of the moment. No different than, fuck me Jim. Harder. Faster.” He slid the tip of his tongue up the underside of Jim’s cock from root to tip. “Deeper.” He swallowed Jim down again, relaxing his throat like he’d read about and taking him all in.

Jim hissed, arching his back and gripping Sherlock’s hair. “Ah! I hate you.”

Hate you. Hate. Sherlock chuckled, the vibration pulling a curse from the man under him. He sat back and looked down at Jim panting and needy below him. Hate. One of those interchangeable variables in this zero sum game of theirs. 

Jim grit his teeth and growled. “What are you looking so pleased about?”

Sherlock tilted his head and let his gaze rake down Jim’s flush body. Unable to tell him the truth of where his mind had gone, Sherlock bluffed. “I’m considering the potential of your stamina. Turn around. On your knees.”

Jim’s eyes widened for a fraction of a moment, but he regained his composure and stretched himself tantalizingly across the couch. “Is that how you want to play tonight?”

“Yes.”

Jim’s head lulled against the cushions and he bit his bottom lip as he stared up at the ceiling as though he were reading invisible words above him. 

“If you object,” Sherlock began and Jim’s attention snapped back to him. 

“Not at all,” he said and lazily rolled over onto his hands and knees across the couch.

Sherlock ran his fingers down the line of Jim’s spine. “If you have another preference, you should tell me.”

Jim glanced back over his shoulder and huffed with annoyance. “No preference. You’ve piqued my curiosity.”

Sherlock relaxed, running his flattened palm over the mound of Jim’s rump. “Good,” he said, giving him a sharp smack.

Jim giggled. “Oh! Have I been naughty?”

“Of course you have.”

“What have I done now?”

“You’re you. You’ve probably done a dozen things people would disapprove of since I last saw you.”

“Ah. And you’re going to punish me for it, are you? For all those ‘people’.”

Sherlock slid behind Jim giving him another hard spank, watching the pale flesh ripple and flush a deep pink. “No.” He gave Jim a harder smack that had the man jump forward at the impact “I’m going to enjoy you.”

Jim beamed like a child. He arched his back tantalizingly. "That's the spirit."

Sherlock remained stoic, taking the opportunity of Jim's good mood to steal another data sweep. Engaged, eager, needing distraction. Hoping the noise in his head would stop, by feeling real and grounded in the present. Sex might be a touchstone for Jim as much as it was a release valve. What did John say, about doing things for your partner. "Say it again."

"What?"

Sherlock smirked. "You know what." His palm hovering over Jim's flesh, already radiating heat.

Jim hummed with pleasure, refusing to comply right away. Being a brat. That was okay. 

"James..."

He looked up at Sherlock through his lashes. His voice was barely above a whisper. "I need you Sherlock."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. After graduation comes finding a job. Then the fear that you might not get the job. Then starting the job. Then getting used to the new routine. You get the idea.


	35. Chapter 35

Sherlock couldn’t be sure what time he woke the next morning, but sunlight had already crept across the bedroom to shine through the highlights of Jim’s deeply mussed hair. The criminal shifted ever so slightly in his sleep, pressing his shoulders back into Sherlock’s chest, the motion tugging his attention to the fact that he was still inside the man. Instantly Sherlock was wide awake. The intimacy of them falling asleep in this position crashed over Sherlock all at once and his cock twitched, beginning to swell within Jim’s tight heat despite himself. 

That was a bit not good, wasn’t it. Conflicting urges to be a gentleman and brute clashed within him. He finally settled on his better angels, bracing himself to carefully pull out.

Jim moaned in his sleep breathily, shifting again in a way that squeezed Sherlock’s cock, making the detective screw his eyes shut and bite his lip to keep from losing control and snapping his hips. There was nothing he wanted more. He let out a shaky sigh and attempted to steady himself for another attempt, but another sleepy moan from Jim only sent him reeling further. 

Jim’s internal muscles squeezed him quite deliberately in quick succession. Sherlock grunted in frustration, hissing through his teeth, “Bastard. You’re awake.”

Jim chuckled, voice soft, but the convulsion of the laughter clamped down around Sherlock’s cock further, pulling a desperate groan from him. Jim glanced back over his shoulder at his lover with a bemused glint. “You’ve got your prick in an unconscious man and I’m the bastard?”

Panic shot through Sherlock. “I didn’t- I wouldn’t.”

Jim rolled his hips back into him, eliciting another wanton groan from the detective. “Wouldn’t you? The evidence suggests otherwise.”

Sherlock whimpered, still desperately trying to keep perfectly still. “I fell asleep inside you,” he whispered, but was surprised to find that saying it aloud only made him harder.

Jim hummed, laying his head back on the pillow while pushing himself back onto Sherlock’s prick again. Sherlock’s breath stuttered, his brain shutting down as he silently cursed the man. Jim reached back and pulled Sherlock’s hand around him and down to his crotch. The second his fingers grazed over Jim’s half hard cock, deliberation was over. He wrapped his fingers around the length and finally rolled his hips up. 

Jim moaned, whispering, “Good boy. Give it to me.” He smirked glancing back at Sherlock whose face had flushed hot. “Again.”

Sherlock snatched a fistful of Jim’s hair, stretching his neck for the greedy bombardment of his lips, retracing every bruise and bite from the night before. His other hand slid away from Jim’s full erection, leaving it to bob between his legs as Sherlock’s long fingers traced the five perfect round bruises he’d left on Jim’s hips when he’d bent him over the kitchen table last night. He placed the pads of his fingers over each bruise, pushing in to grip him while he snapped his hips forward. He was rewarded with a loud moan from the smaller man. 

“Should wake up every morning with you inside me,” Jim groaned.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, before covering Jim’s mouth with his own and sliding his tongue inside while he rut inside him. He reveled in every moan and gasp he swallowed from Jim’s mouth. Greedy for more, he returned a hand to Jim’s cock, stroking him in time. He built them both up quickly, bringing them to the very cusp of climax then easing off. 

Jim cursed. Bright eyes laser tuned to Sherlock for a barbed protest, only to be cut off when the pace suddenly picked up again. Jim’s expression melted to pleasure at the shift and a cocky sense of accomplishment rushed through Sherlock’s blood at finally learning this dance to more of his partner’s liking. Jim liked being surprised. He liked being manhandled. He really liked being physically controlled and fucked repeatedly into incoherence. Sherlock was more than happy to oblige.

He edged Jim longer than necessary, bringing him close with a hard grip and frantic pace, only to ease off with lazy lovemaking, letting his hands caress Jim’s pale skin with near reverent tenderness, then pushing him down and taking him hard once more. Jim was under him, fingers clawed in the sheets, nearly screaming when Sherlock finally took them both over edge. Jim’s orgasm spilled over the sheets his belly was pressed deeply into. 

He left the criminal panting, eyes half closed in a pleased daze. Sherlock pressed a kiss to Jim’s shoulder, gingerly pulling out. A stream of his seed followed his departure, sliding down Jim’s thigh and the sight alone sent a thrilled shiver through Sherlock’s frame. He slid his fingers through Jim’s surprisingly soft hair and planted another kiss on his neck. “Stay,” he whispered. “I’ll be right back.”

Jim hummed back sleepily, stretching out over the bed. Sherlock stole a glance back to admire the man’s form, how beautiful, how right Jim looked, pliant and sated, sprawled across his bed. He returned a minute later with a warm damp towel. He sat beside Jim on the bed and wiped him clean with steady, strong strokes of cloth to skin, enjoying this opportunity to take care of his lover, enjoying that Jim was letting him. Jim rolled onto his back, smiling with lazy contentment as he stretched under each caress. Lean muscle rolled under pale skin, tempting Sherlock to explore the planes of it with his mouth again. 

“Show off,” Sherlock said, his lips quirking into a smirk against Jim’s shoulderblade. 

“You love it,” Jim laughed.

“I do,” he replied, quickly cleaning himself off as well. He tossed the towel to a pile of laundry on the floor, earning a critical look from the fastidious criminal. Sherlock ignored it, hooking a hand behind Jim’s head and pulling him in to kiss his lips. “Breakfast?”

Jim’s large eyes slid to the window. “More like lunch at this point,” he said, lifting his arms above his head and stretching again with a yawn. 

“Lunch. Dinner,” Sherlock said, nuzzling Jim’s neck. “Anything you want.”

Jim pulled Sherlock down. “What if I want you again?”

Sherlock laughed. “Greedy.”

“Hello?” Jim blinked up at Sherlock with feigned innocence. “Have you met me?”

“Hmmm. Good point.” Sherlock nipped under Jim’s chin. “Want me more.”

“Now whose being greedy?”

Sherlock gave Jim’s rump a playful squeeze. “I’m making you breakfast.”

“If you must,” Jim said feigning boredom, but the faintest tug of his lips betrayed how much the offer pleased him. Sherlock wasn’t sure why the observation elated him. 

“You’re being awfully good today,” Sherlock said, sitting up. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“See what happens when you’re naughty,” Jim said with a lazy shrug. 

“I’ll have to endeavor to misbehave more often,” Sherlock said, getting up and moving toward the door.

“Don’t be a tease,” Jim called after him. Sherlock paused in the hallway, smirked at the words, then made his way to the kitchen. 

The kitchen was in disarray, a few of his glassware pieces lay in pieces on the floor. The flash of a memory from the night before ricocheted through his mind. Picking Jim up and throwing him down across the table, the way nails scratched down his back as he pushed inside him, rocking the table, the crash of glass barely registering in that moment of heat and want and urgent need. He’d been starving for Jim and nothing else had mattered. Sherlock picked up a jagged piece of glass that used to be a test tube. Mildly disappointing, but ultimately replaceable. Unlike Jim. He tossed the glass into the bin, then picked up a broom to hastily sweep aside the rest of the debris in case Jim wandered in barefoot. Once he was satisfied the floor was safe for bare feet, he opened the fridge and found it empty. 

Sherlock hissed a soft curse. That was okay. He lived above a cafe. And Mrs. Hudson. Between the two, he’d be able to scrounge up enough for a decent breakfast to serve his guest. 

“Going to borrow some eggs from Mrs. Hudson,” he called down the hallway.

“Thought you were cooking me breakfast, not your nanny,” Jim’s teasing drawl floated back toward him.

“Give me some warning next time,” Sherlock said, haphazardly throwing on enough clothes from the floor to make himself presentable for his landlady. 

He was gone for less than five minutes. Mrs. Hudson dismissed his request for supplies and pulled out a quiche she had baked that morning for a friend of hers. She’d waved off Sherlock’s protests, insisting she could make another, but probed him relentlessly about the identity of the new boyfriend he clearly had. He wasn’t ready for that just yet and it took some skillful dodging to avoid her bombardment of questions. He left her flat carefully balancing a breakfast tray with the quiche, a decanter of orange juice, tomatoes, mushrooms, and toast precariously swaying as he made his way up the stairs. Grateful he’d left the door unlocked, he performed a bit of contortion to turn the handle and back his way into the flat, breathing a sigh of relief once he’d made it inside with the entire haul in tact.

“Sherlock?”

His spine straightened and the dishes clattered in the tray when he heard that voice. “John?”

He looked up and froze. John stood in the hallway, facing the closed washroom door. His room mate’s wide eyes blinked at him, then slid to the door in horror. “I was -“ He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Sorry. I thought I was just talking to you.”

Sherlock swallowed thickly. The sound of a faucet turning off echoed down the hallway and into his skull. “What were you talking to me about?”

John took a few steps toward him, gesturing behind him as if that would illustrate his point. “I didn’t think he’d still be here,” he whispered. “It’s nearly four in the afternoon Sherlock.”

“Oh.” Sherlock looked down at the tray. He understood perfectly. Not John’s fault. That didn’t stop the dread from blooming in his gut. Tell anyone and I’m a ghost, Jim had said. 

The door opened and John’s eyes went wide as his back straightened. Jim emerged with a towel wrapped around his waist. His posture the lazy ease of a predator. His head tilted and dark eyes slid under heavily lidded eyes, mouth hung lax. He licked his lips and scoffed a soft laugh. “Hell~o Jaawn,” he sang with deceptively soft menace.

John tensed, his body going all military readiness as he turned to look back at the criminal. “Moriarty,” he said crisply.

Jim tsked. “So formal.” He made a comical parody of John’s rigid posture. He broke into peals of mad laughter, body going slinky and lax again. “After all we’ve shared. I’m hurt.”

John bristled. “Good,” he hissed.

“John,” Sherlock warned, but his attention was locked on Jim, fascinated. Jim was … nervous. That’s what this was, this devil may care, mad little mask. That’s what the whole manic Moriarty persona was, a shield, a feint, a slight of hand. He was nervous, and to hide that, he vibrated at this weird edge on the border of calm and frenzy, carnality and aloofness. Every encounter they’d had as enemies flashed through his mind in quick succession. Was that what it had always been? He only realized it now because it stood in such stark contrast to five minutes before when Jim had been … human.

He met Jim’s eyes, bottomless black and unreadable. Did Jim see that he saw? 

“This is insane,” John muttered. “He’s the same as he always was.”

Yes, Sherlock thought. He is. He was. “John. I think you should go.”

“No,” Jim snapped. “He should stay.”

Sherlock met his eyes again, read the flat line of his mouth. “Mycroft told him,” he said.

“But you confirmed it.”

“Photographs Jim. You had to steal a painting.” Reading Jim’s reaction, or rather lack of one he added quickly. “But you’ve known that he knows for months now.”

Jim shrugged. “Maybe I did.”

“Then there’s no issue.”

Jim hummed, a slight quirk tugging the corner of his lip in a way half Moriarty, half Jim. “I’ll still punish you for it.”

Sherlock scoffed, finally setting down the tray. “Oh now whose being a tease.”

John sputtered. “Hello! I’m still here.”

“Debatable,” Jim hummed, examining his nails. 

Sherlock looked at John and blushed. “Sorry,” he muttered. “As you can see, it’s a bad time. Can I call you later?”

John was still tense. He looked between Sherlock and Jim, clearly wrestling with leaving his friend in what he felt was a dangerous situation. He took a step toward Sherlock and whispered, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m the one with bruises,” Jim sang down the hallway.

John grit his teeth and whirled on Jim. “You probably deserved it.”

Jim grinned lewdly, taking a single step forward. “Oh I soooo did.”

John recoiled and screwed his eyes shut. He muffled a small scream, then blew out a breath. His head snapped up and he looked at Sherlock. “Fine. I’m going. Call me later, yeah?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said. He watched John beat a hasty retreat out of the flat in silence, then turned his attention back to Jim, who hadn’t moved further, nor dropped his posture of perfectly curated ease. 

Sherlock crossed the distance between them in silence, watching Jim watch him approach with the steady gaze of an aloof cat, ready to bolt. He wrapped his arms around Jim’s shoulder and kissed the top of his head. “Sorry for that. I still want to spend the day with you, but I understand if you don’t want to stay here if you think he’ll call MI6 down on you.”

Jim was a statue in his hold for a couple heartbeats, then to Sherlock’s amazement the criminal genuinely relaxed, pressing his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder. “Yes. It’s better if I have breakfast at my place.”

Sherlock nodded, threading his fingers through Jim’s hair. “Sensible.”

Jim lifted his head and kissed Sherlock softly. He looked up with a small smirk. “Put on something clean if you’re coming with me.”


	36. Chapter 36

Soft. Jim’s hair was so soft. Like his skin and his voice and the way he moved, devil may care. Sherlock took a deep breath and opened his eyes, taking in the flat around him for the first time. The first opportunity he’d had now that Jim seemed to finally be sated after that last round. Or three. He stole a glance down at the criminal mastermind whose head was in his lap. Eyes closed, kiss swollen lips slightly parted, not sleeping, but drowsy, relaxed, open. Remarkable.

It was nearly morning again. He could see the hint of purple in the sky now. Twelfth floor. An upscale, newly constructed flat in one of those high-rises along the river. Not the penthouse suite, not one of the cheaper models either, instead slightly off-center from the middle of the building. Working professionals, career addicts and ambitious middle class demographics were his neighbors. People too busy, too self-absorbed, or simply too tired to pay much attention to on of a dozen flats on this floor. Jim was as skilled at blending in as he was at standing out, when he chose.

The furniture was selected by a designer. Ordinary pale colors. Ordinary simple design. Ordinary apple computer sitting prettily at a standing desk. A mid-grade television mounted to the wall. Everything middle of the road. Boring. Boring. No sign of Jim’s projects. No sign of his personality. Nothing of him here. A bolt hole then? Not for the long term. Jim would climb the walls for the lack of stimuli. Sherlock would climb the walls for the lack of Jim.

“I can hear you thinking,” Jim whispered, his eyes still closed as he tilted his head up to Sherlock’s hand, encouraging him to keep petting him. It reminded Sherlock of a lap cat and the thought made him smile. 

“You don’t use this place often,” Sherlock said, obliging Jim by resuming the run of his fingers through those soft ebony locks. 

“No,” Jim yawned, humming with pleasure. He clearly enjoyed being touched, which was a nice change from his usual avoidance. “It’s convenient and discrete. Do you need to rush back to Baker Street?”

“No.” He hesitated, debating whether or not to press another issue when he finally had the man in a good mood. “John won’t go running to Mycroft. You know that, don’t you?”

Jim shrugged. “Maybe not. But I don’t leave these things to chance.”

Nothing to refute that and Jim hadn’t reacted, so he elected to let it go. Instead Sherlock pulled his fingers from Jim’s hair and traced the pad of his index finger across Jim’s brows, down the slope of his nose, across the curve of his lips, memorizing the touch of him. The silence carried on. He should have say something. “You have a high sex drive.”

Not that.

Jim’s lips quirked at the corners, tugging Sherlock’s finger. He opened his mouth and pulled the finger into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the digit suggestively and opening his eyes to meet Sherlock’s frozen gaze. Jim laughed when he saw Sherlock’s face. “Hmmm… that still bothers you.”

Wrestling with what to do for a moment, Sherlock finally elected to pull his finger away. He’d rather hear Jim’s voice. “No.”

Jim pointedly watched the retreat of Sherlock’s hand. “Liar,” he drawled.

Sherlock licked his lips, feeling a flush of embarrassment that he thought he’d gotten past. “I admit I sometimes worry about my ability to satisfy you properly.”

“You did fine,” Jim said. He took Sherlock’s hand and pulled it back to his face. “Keep touching me. I liked that.”

Sherlock smiled at that and resumed brushing his fingers over Jim’s face, through his hair, down his neck. Jim’s eyes slipped shut and he hummed with pleasure. Sherlock let the moment linger in silence, just communicating through touch. When he spoke again, his voice seemed to intrusive to the serenity, even to himself. “Just fine?”

“Do you want me to say you’re the best shag I’ve ever had?”

“No. This isn’t an ego thing. I just want to know if you’re -“ Sherlock’s throat went dry. Dangerous territory this.

Jim’s eyes snapped open. “If I’m…?”

“Happy,” Sherlock whispered.

Jim stared at him looking positively appalled at the idea. He blinked twice then giggled, which morphed into a hearty laugh, his body shaking with it in Sherlock’s lap. “Oh Sherlock. How are you still so adorable?”

“Shut up,” Sherlock grumbled. His fingers contracted in Jim’s hair and he pulled the criminal’s head back, pulling a pleased gasp from him.

Jim stopped laughing, but his dark eyes glittered. “Make me,” he whispered back in challenge.

Sherlock pulled Jim’s head back by his hair again and took advantage of his open lips to press a plundering kiss to his mouth. The shudder in Jim’s breath, the way he arched his body up, the passion of the kiss returned in kind, all had become a predictable pattern, but that wasn’t bad. For once, predictable was thrilling. Brush Jim’s hipbone and his heartbeat flutters, tease his tongue with a slow kiss and he’ll deepen it, give his hair a tug and he’ll gasp as the flush across his cheeks spread over the bridge of his nose. Little habits of intimacy. They belonged to Sherlock now. Sometimes he could convince himself of that.

It was fantastic. It was frightening. For what was won could be lost. As an unrealized possibility, the fantasy of having Jim Moriarty for his own was safe, untouchable. The reality of it surpassed any fantasy, but it was a far more fragile thing than Sherlock had ever considered. Jim could leave. He could be captured. He could die. The thought of any end was almost too much to bear.

Jim wrapped his arms behind Sherlock’s neck and sat up in his lap, his mouth insistent, demanding as he pressed closer, chest to chest, skin to skin. It pulled Sherlock’s thoughts back to the here and now. A now which had Jim Moriarty in his arms, kissing him, wanting him. For the fifth time that day. 

Sherlock’s hands roamed the expanse of Jim’s back, hoping his body would rise to the challenge once more, but quickly discovered that his sore flesh was indeed spent. Jim's lips were soft, warm, and he loved the way the man felt when he was this close and wanted him. But he couldn’t force his body to comply no matter how much he willed it. He hated disappointing this man.

Jim sensed the tension. His kiss hesitated, then he pulled back, his dark eyes blown with lust. “What’s wrong?”

Sherlock’s heart hammered. “I- I’m sorry.”

Jim looked Sherlock up and down, then grinned like a child. “For wha~at?” 

Heat flushed in Sherlock’s face. It was obvious Jim already knew, but the man never failed to pounce on the chance to needle him. “I can’t. Um…again. Yet.”

That made Jim brighten with mischievous delight. He pressed himself closer to Sherlock and nuzzled his neck. “Can’t, what, again, yet?” The man was practically purring and he tugged Sherlock’s earlobe with his teeth. 

“You’re teasing me,” Sherlock grumbled. 

“Yes,” Jim hummed. “Say it for me Sherlock.”

Sherlock swallowed. If Jim was teasing him, that meant he wasn’t unhappy with him. “I’m afraid you’ve worn me out.”

Jim’s fingers brushed the length of Sherlock’s spent cock. A surge of want and a wince of pain pulled a hiss through Sherlock’s teeth. Jim pouted. “Poor you.” Those dark lashes lifted and pure mirth glittered there. “Should I call someone else in to finish me off then?”

Hurt, anger, disbelief, panic, possessiveness all roared through Sherlock like a burst dam. The torrent broke and vaporized to steam against Jim’s cruel laugh. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “You’re teasing me again.”

“Yes.” Jim draped his arms over Sherlock’s shoulders and twined his fingers through his curls. “You are a jealous thing. So possessive.”

Sherlock kept his eyes shut, enjoying Jim’s touch as he steadied himself. “Does it bother you?”

“No.” Jim shrugged with an ever so slightly stiff casualness.

Sherlock opened his eyes. The corners of Jim’s mouth were a little too set. He smirked, but felt uneasy. “Liar.”

“Truth,” Jim insisted. 

“At least five of your micro expressions indicate you are uncomfortable with my possessiveness,” Sherlock sighed.

“So you admit it?”

“Yes. Can you?”

Jim shrugged. “Maybe I’m just not used to being wanted.”

The admission shot Sherlock through the heart. Was this another game? Or was this how he really felt. His mouth fumbled to find a retort. Finally, “You have Sebastian,” tumbled out clumsily.

“Yes,” Jim said, gaze searching Sherlock’s face for a moment before looking away. “I have Sebastian. Always will. He’s trapped in the orbit of my gravity.”

“And I’m not?”

Jim snickered and shook his head. He stood up and combed his disheveled hair back with his fingers. “I’m ordering take away. What do you fancy?”

The hanging thread of the prior conversation was still at the forefront of his mind, but it was obvious Jim was done with the topic. He wrestled with himself for a moment to resist pressing the issue, managing to force himself to relax. 

“Whatever you want is fine.” Sherlock settled back against the couch and indulged in watching Jim’s nude form cross the room to retrieve his phone from the chair he’d carelessly tossed it into when they’d first entered the flat and tore each other’s clothes off. 

Jim laughed. “Whatever? So you’re leaving your fate in my hands then?” Mischievousness vibrated from Jim’s skin and Sherlock sat bolt upright.

“What are you going to order,” he asked, jumping to his feet to chase after him.

Jim darted away, tapping at his phone with glee. “Oh no. You had your chance Holmes. Accept that you’ve lost.”

“Wait. I change my mind.” He tried to head Jim off around the kitchen island, but the criminal backtracked, darting back to the couch, keeping the furniture between them. 

“Against the rules,” Jim said, giddy as he tapped furiously. 

“Oh, since when do you do rules?” Sherlock tried to feign to the left, then the right, but Jim perfectly mirrored him from the other side of the couch. He glanced up from his phone and taunted Sherlock with a cheeky air kiss. They froze in standoff for a heartbeat. Sherlock then took a chance at another feign before lunging over the couch, knocking it on its side and crashing bodily into Jim, wrestling him down to the ground and scrambling for the phone.

Once captured, Jim went completely still. When Sherlock fumbled with the phone, Jim began to laugh. “Too late,” he sang. 

Sherlock sighed, pulling up the offending device and seeing a delivery order to some underling in Jim’s employ. He blinked at the order. “Wait. I like chips,” he said.

“I know,” Jim said, taking advantage of Sherlock’s bewilderment to wriggle free. “You’re so easy to wind up.”

Threat. Retreat. Attack. Intrigue. Advance. Threat. Repeat. That was the pattern with Jim. The pattern of a dance. Every movement, even something as mundane as this, was part of the steps, part of the path of their mutually orbiting gravity. A small thing. Trivial, but Sherlock couldn't help reading into it. Jim had the opportunity to annoy him for his own amusement, but instead chose something Sherlock would enjoy. Stupid. Stupid. Tiny. And yet. 

Jim had crawled away a few steps when Sherlock’s mind rebooted. He grabbed Jim’s ankles and pulled him back along the hardwood floor. The criminal yelped with surprise. When he was slid back under the detective, he smirked up at the man defiantly. “What? Still not happy?”

“I’m happy,” Sherlock said, and kissed him.


End file.
